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toIheFinish! 



'est la Guerre 

(It is iheWav) 



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Joe Chappie 




Oass^ J] 6 4-0 
Book : 






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COFflRIGHT DEPOSm 



WE'LL STICK TO THE FINISH!" 



''C'est la Guerre 

{li is the War) 



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Photo by Garo 



JOE MITCHELL CHAPPLE 

Photograph taken with Gas Mask 



"WE'LL STICK 

TO THE FINISH! " 

''Oest la Guerre'' 

(It is the War) 



A Voice from the Soldiers and 
Sailors Overseas — People and 
Places Visited in the War Zones 



Joe Mitchell Chapple 



BOSTON 

CHAPPLE PUBLISHING COMPANY, Limited 
1918 



^tl 



COPTBIGHT, 1918 
BT 

Job Mitchell Ghapplh 



AiJG -5 1918 



©CI.A503028 



TO THE 

^olbter£( anb bailors; of tte ^lliti 

WHOSE IMMORTAL DEEDS 

ARE RECORDED 

IN SELF-SACRIFICE 

AND BLOOD 



List of Illustrations 

The Author Frontispiece 

Facing Page 

Woodrow Wilson, President of the United States. ... 16' 

Col. Edward M. House 1'^ 

Premier Clemenceau of France SS-^ 

French "75" Bombarding German Trench 33 / 

Clenuenceau, "The Tiger," Reviewing British Troops . S3 

"Do with Us as You Like" 48/ 

General John J. ("Fighting Jack") Pershing 4ft/' 

In the Front Lines 64/ 

In No Man's Land 64^ 

On Their Way 65/ 

German Prisoners on Way to Prison Camp 65/ 

Henry P. Davison, Chairman x\merican Red Cross. . 80/ 

American Red Cross Rest House Behind Italian Front 80 ' 

Map Showing American Red Cross Activities in Italy 81 
Report of the Author's Address which appeared in the 

Leading Newspaper of Rome 96 

General Diaz, Commander in Chief of Italian Army . . 97 

Orlando, Premier of Italy 112 

Guglielmo Marconi, Senator and Inventor 113 

Nit6 — Italian Minister of Finance 128 

Conveying Supplies in Besieged Venice 12ft 

Luncheon in Paris 129 '^ 

Andre Citroen, France's Foremost Munition Manu- 
facturer 144 

Le Marechal Joffre 145 

Sir Douglas Haig, Commander in Chief of British 

Army 160 

(vii) 



List of Illustrations 

Lloyd George, Premier of England 160 '^ 

Generalissimo Foch, Commander in Chief of Allied 

Armies 161 v 

Sir Eric Geddes, Britain's First Lord of the Admiralty 176 

Admiral William S. Sims, U. S. N 177 

Hon. Newton D. Baker, Secretary of War, U. S. A. . . 192 

Hon. Josephus Daniels, Secretary of Navy, U. S, A. . . 192 

Lord Leverhulme, the Creator of Port Sunlight 193 

Hon. W. G. Sharpe, American Ambassador to France. 208 
Hon. Walter Hines Page, American Ambassador to 

the Court of St. James 209 

Hon. Thomas Nelson Page, American Ambassador to 

Italy 224 

Area Miss Storey's Hot Comforts Fund 225 

King Albert of Belgium 240 

His Majesty, George V of England 241 

President Poincare of France 256 

Victor Emmanuel, King of Italy 257 , 



(viii) 



CONTENTS 

PagB 

I, Cest la Guerre — It is the War 1 

II. Sailing for France 8 

III. Paris under Bombardment 14 

IV. Face to Face with Clemenceau— "The Tiger" 22 
V. With Pershing and His Men 34 

VI. With the American Troops in a Gas Mask. 50 

VII. Under the Red Cross Banner in France ... 68 

VIII. A Sunday Visit with Marshal Joffre 83 

IX. Ancient Rome in Modern War Times 92 

X. Orlando and Italy's Lawmakers 107 

XI. Sieged Venice by Night and Day 115 

XII. Along the Italian Front 127 

XIII. With the Rolling Canteen in Italy 144 

XIV. Andre Citroen, an Industrial Leader of 

France 153 

XV. Generalissimo Foch, the Strategist 161 

XVI. Sir Douglas Haig, British Commander 166 

XVII. Lloyd George— The Lion of No. 10 Down- 
ing Street 171 

XVIII. "The Admiralty" and Admiral Sims 181 

XIX. A Visit to the Grand Fleet 194 

XX. With the American Destroyers — The Doom 

of the Submarine 209 

XXI. Lord Leverhulme and the Six-Hour-Day. . 225 

XXII. American Ambassadors in Warring Europe . 237 

XXIII. Among the Workers Behind the Lines 252 

XXIV. King Albert in His Trenched Domain 373 

XXV. London in War times 284 

XXVI. Homeward Bound— Smoke Talk 296 

(ix) 



FOREWORD 



THIS book was never planned — it grew. I 
went to the Western Front in the capacity 
of a magazine editor, largely to see things, 
to feel the spirit of our men overseas, to talk 
with them in a friendly and informal way, to mix 
with them, live their life, eat their food, and to 
know at first-hand something of Pershing and his 
men; of Sims and his sailors. 

The purpose has grown with the book. It has 
broadened until my travels have covered all fronts, 
from Flanders Field to the highest peak of the 
Alps, and the seas from Ireland to Scotland. 

I have lived and talked with British Tommies, 
Canadian and Australian Colonials, French Poilus, 
Italian Bersagliere, and Yankee Americans. On 
land and on sea I saw soldiers and sailors mingling 
in a New World comradeship. On the battlefields 
they were brigaded in such a "oneness" that only 
the uniform they wore furnished^^identity. On 

(«) 



Foreword 

the sea, at least two great nations had so merged 
that the flag of each dipped as one. 

Not only did I see the big guns of the field and 
the fleet, but the great men of the Allied nations 
as well — looked into their eyes, heard their senti- 
ments and felt their purpose. Some of their in- 
spiring utterances I have brought back with me. 

My chief aim was to see our own boys, to hear 
their words, to see them under fire, and to know 
how it fared with them in the great conflict. 
What I heard and saw constitutes a message — a 
message which is like fire shut up in my bones. 
It is too sacred for personal knowledge alone. 
Within me is an all-compelling must. 

Not for authorial pride, but to stimulate col- 
lective patriotism in my own country — to hearten 
the parents, relatives and sweethearts. To induce 
them, if possible, to keep flying the white letters 
of cheer, not once a week merely, but once a day; 
to keep before our brave soldiers at the front the 
knowledge that the home fires are brightly burning, 
and to inspire them with the nobleness of their 
service and the glory of their sacrifice. This is 
the whole reason for a book, furnishing, as it does, 
one of the great channels of communication. 

To me was given the unexpected privilege of 
talking to the boys singly, in groups and in mass 

(xii) 



Foreword 

meetings — of talking to tliem in plain clothes, in 
plain language, and of giving them a plain message. 
I wanted them to feel, not that I was an official 
or on an accredited mission, but rather just a 
feller from home, sorrj^ for only one thing — that 
I was not actually one of them. 

How readily they responded! Rushing about 
me, almost the whole burden of their question 
was: "Are you going back home?" And many 
were the addresses I brought back — of parents or 
relatives to be remembered, even the shy word 
"to the sweetest little girl in the world." 

My message in this book is in the same plain 
language I used with the boys. Its sentences will 
need no interpreter. 

I wish to return deepest gratitude to those at 
home who in so many ways made my oversea trip 
possible, and to the great number abroad who by 
innumerable acts of courtesy and kindness helped 
to make my stay the most thrilling experience of 
my life. To Secretary Daniels, who made possible 
the trip; to Secretary Lansing and to Secretary 
Baker, who greatly facilitated it; to Vice-Presi- 
dent Marshall, whose words about me I should be 
proud to have in my biography; to George Creel, 
Theodore Roosevelt, Admiral McGowan, and 
Colonel House, whose friendly words opened many 

(3dii) 



Foreword 

a door; to numerous other personal friends whose 
deeds transcend their names; and especially to 
one friend, who stood sponsor for the book, and 
who would not permit the mention of his name, 
yet who purchased the first one thousand copies, 
insisting that he was inspired purely by patriotic 
motives in placing these in the hands of soldiers 
and sailors. 

To Woodrow Wilson, President of the United 
States, whose inspiring utterances and patriotic 
spirit helped so largely in accrediting me all 
through Europe as an American citizen. 



(xiv) 



"WE'LL STICK TO THE FINISH!" 



"C'est la Guerre 

{It is the War) 



>y 



C'EST LA GUERRE— IT IS THE WAR 



THE universal phrase, "C'est la G^ierre," (say- 
lu-gair) , comes hot from the heart of France. 
It covers the various emotions of the war. 
The wailing pacifist shakes his head declaring ''C'est 
la Guerre''; the chic merrymaker of Paris with 
a swing of the arms, declares, ''C'est laOnerre"; the 
embittered cynic sneers, "C'est la Gnerre"; the 
sorrowing man, woman and child resignedly say, 
*'C'est la Guerre''; but its climax is reached when 
the soldier, his soul aflame, rushes into the fray or 
into No Man's Land where the ghostly gloom is 
lighted only by the cannon's flare, exultingly 
shouting, "C'est la Guerre." In that cry is the 
hope of civilization. 

Because it voices every angle of the greatest 
struggle in the world, we use the French phrase 
*'C'est la Guerre" — for in all history this is the war. 

Peering into the impenetrable distance are the 
eyes of the great family-fraternity who have fathers, 



2 We'll Stick to the Finish 

husbands, sons and sweethearts in the conflict, 
and who welcome not only what is defined knowl- 
edge, but the merest fragments of information as 
to whereabouts and doings of their own. 

There is something in the contemplation of 
war which is sobering in itself, but when we con- 
sider the scope of this struggle, how inconsequential 
are all those things we thought greatest in life. 
And what are the stakes? Not markets, not 
territory, but life and death. It is the crucial 
hour of the world. 

In the United States, we have come gradually 
to the realization that we are at war and have 
taken our place by the side of heroic Allies. The 
die is cast. The liberties of free peoples must be 
written for the ages in the blood of our own soldiers. 

Americans in France, accustomed to the con- 
templation of big things, find the proportions of 
this war to be overwhelming. Armies of a million 
are but a dot on the map. The actual fighting 
line reaches a distance equal to that from Boston 
to Buffalo. Five tons of supplies must go three 
thousand miles with every American soldier. 
Yankee genius has provided bakeries producing a 
million loaves a day. Every device in the rear of 
the line is being used to conserve the precious 
drops of American blood. Drinking water is 



C'est la Guerre — It is the War 3 

analyzed in the laboratories every day. The 
health of the soldier is paramount. The slime and 
mud of the trench is lessened when the soldier is 
**fit." The health of the American soldier is good 
to see and his spirits correspond. Here in the 
making is a new type of citizenship — void of caste 
and social distinctions — the sublime task is making 
comrades of all. 

Nothing we ever saw or read before in ancient 
lore equals the courage manifested by our soldiers 
in France. There are moments, to be sure, when, 
face to face with death, there are gulping throats, 
but they are philosophical even then. 

The boys are not to be censured because they 
do not write; their time is full and there is action 
in every moment. Even in the rest billets is the 
subconsciousness which comes with realization 
that grim Death hovers everywhere. 

We used to speak of our soldiers as "boys," but 
in France they have grown to the full stature of 
manhood. What a thrill it gave me to see in per- 
son those whose pictures a year or two ago mothers 
had put into my hands. 

In the mile after mile of troops I saw going to 
the trenches, not one countenance reflected regret, 
not one face carried the sullen aspect of engaging 
in an unwilling task. 



4 We'll Stick to the Finish 

The dominant thought of all is — to win the war, 
to stick to the finish. Not one wishes to return 
until the job is done. There is no complaining 
about food or accommodations. Everything is 
accepted with soldierly fortitude. The only ex- 
pressed wish I heard was for candy, cigarettes and 
socks. There is not sufficient leisure in the camp 
for the smoking of pipes or for the solacing 
cigar, but a cigarette is quickly lighted and seems 
to offer a soothing sedative when shrapnel is 
falling. 

The desolation of "No Man's Land" cannot be 
described. Side by side with fields of living green, 
spangled with flowers, cheered by the songs of 
birds, is that black, churned, barren strip of land, 
over which nothing stalks but Death. 

To visit the war front from siege -stricken 
Venice, Padua, and Asiago in the Tyrol Alps; 
Verdun with its valorous Poilus; sectors held by 
brave British, intrepid Americans, and fearless 
Colonials, Canadians and Belgians; to see the 
battle grounds where wave after wave of the 
fiendish Huns have been met, together with the 
great hospitals, aviation camps, the Grand Fleet 
at the Firth, and the destroyer flotilla at Queens- 
town, is to be overwhelmed with the magnitude 
of the struggle. 



C'est la Guerre — It is the War 5 

Not only on the earth but in the sky are the 
forces struggling. Observation balloons, night 
raids, long range guns, and flying squadrons 
are now a part of war's machinery. Thrilling it 
was and touching to see the A. E. F. from far-off 
America — stars of manhood from every state and 
territory in the Union. Their parade through 
the streets of London moved the sturdy Britishers 
to fervent enthusiasm. Nor were the French to 
be outdone in their admiration for the American 
troops — the finest of America's sons poured out 
on the sacrificial altar. Yet ''c'est la guerre." 

In all the camps I visited I never indulged in 
poetical rhapsodies about the war. There was a 
practical job to do and no poetry about it. It 
was a matter of business to direct the great flow- 
ing tides of American and British khaki, French 
blue and Italian green. Moving trains everywhere 
were laden with guns and soldiers. Men accus- 
tomed to Pullmans, and once churlish in taking 
an upper berth were now glad to have room to 
move their feet, to say nothing of lying down. 
The carriages in most cases were freight cars — 
hommes, 40; cheveaux, 8. Armies moved to and 
fro in a new world comradeship; Italians coming 
to the north, and British moving south to the 
plateau of Asiago. The wounded were pouring 



6 We'll Stick to the Finish 

into "Blighty," that haven for dauntless Cana- 
dians, courageous Colonials and heroic British. 

The result of the war resolves itself into a 
matter of mathematical calculation where the 
forces with the longest range guns and the largest 
number of men in reserve have the advantage. 

But there is another element, sometimes over- 
looked, which in this war may well prove to be 
the deciding factor, and that is, the morale. 
Should this be so, as manifest by the sublime 
spirit of the Allied troops, the future is full of 
hope. 

The most impressive picture of my entire 
journey was the salute of a young American 
commander of a machine gun company as he 
reported at headquarters, with a gashing wound 
in his arm, "My men are at the guns." When 
the supporting troops were sent, they found every 
man at the guns, but — they were dead. There 
were no chains on the wrists of these boys. In 
the hospital trains or on the cars of wounded, 
there is little complaint, although men are bleed- 
ing and dying. At most there may be the pitiful 
call for "mother," yet ''c'est la guerre." 

The evidences of war's ravages are legion. 
There is the tottering cripple, the mangled form, 
and the groping blind — yet even in these is a 



C'est la Guerre — It is the War 7 

radiance which speaks of souls burning with a 
great purpose. It is for people on this side of the 
water, possessed of physical health and enjoying 
the comforts of home, to pour out unstintingly 
of all they possess — their time, thought, energy 
and money — but, above all, to give themselves, 
unreservedly as our soldiers are doing — to win the 
war! 



II 



SAILING FOR FRANCE 



SAILING for France!" What a new and 
strange significance that sentence has in the 
year, A. D. 1918. 
Clad in a cutaway, a two-year-old Chesterfield 
summer overcoat with flowing skirt, I sailed away, 
prouder than I had ever been in a dress suit. 
Today the most precious heritage I have is that 
old coat, for I not only wore it on all the battle- 
fronts, but — how sacred it seems! — it has been 
touched with the blood of some of our American 
boys! 

On the S. S. Espagne were Americans, English, 
French, and Italians — people representing nearly 
all allied and neutral countries. Each passport 
was concrete in its directions, and each passenger 
specific in his declaration, "I sail with a purpose." 
Business and pleasure were of the past. Life biog- 
raphies were recited and explanations made; 
missions were magnified and exploited in the quick 

(8) 



C'est la Guerre — It is the War 9 

acquaintance of shipmates. At the first table 
before reaching the roUing seas, I had a toothache, 
which caused me to hst my head to port. The lady 
opposite thought she had drawn a grouch, when I 
confessed — "a toothache." It was a French ship, a 
French crew, and a French cook. The cook, with 
his soups, stews and salads, soon won our hearts 
and reconciled us to war rations. I found my 
French was not working well. Asking, in a 
bilious tone, for eggs at breakfast, I was handed 
a lemon. 

My steward, Jean Gardin of the 220th French 
Infantry, was wounded five times in the Marne 
campaign and in the assaults of Verdun in 1914 
and 1916, and had received the War Cross. He lost 
one eye on his twenty-ninth birthday at Verdun, 
but he sees more than many with two eyes. He 
was honorably discharged and detailed to help on 
steamships; every wounded soldier finds something 
to do. When I heard his story I felt like getting 
up and waiting on him. 

The personnel of the passenger list was inter- 
esting, indicating a variety of purpose. Mary 
Garden was singing for the soldiers on the lower 
deck. She greeted them all with a kiss (by proxy). 
The lucky man was introduced and given the 
osculatory salute to pass on — in spirit. Hurrahs 



10 We'll Stick to the Finish 

for the famous American prima donna rang over 
the decks. 

Miss Boardman presided at all the Red Cross 
meetings, Chaplain Smith at the Y. M. C. A. 
gatherings, and Burton Stevenson at the Library 
rallies. Everything pertaining to the war was 
discussed. Pictures of the scenes referred to were 
envisioned. 

Miss Anne Morgan rehearsed the rehabilitation 
plans at the deck gatherings. "This is not the 
time for writing about what we are going to do — 
it is the time for doing things," she said. 

Mrs. Cashman and Mrs. Coleman du Pont of 
the Y. W. C. A. were enroute to visit the hostess 
houses. General Rodiquet, a veteran of the 
Franco-Prussian campaign, who served with Joffre 
in two wars, corrected me with military precision : 

"Marechal Joffre — no longer General." 

Red Cross meetings were held (weather permit- 
ting) every day in the lounge. Y. M. C. A. gath- 
erings were scheduled with regularity. Nearly 
every state was represented in the personnel, 
including stenographers struggling with French 
and slow appetites, chauffeurs, canteen workers, 
nurses in military cloaks with red lining. Red 
Cross workers, Y. M. C. A. recruits. Salvation 
Army officers. Camp Community helpers, women 



C^est la Guerre — It is the War 11 

for the Y. W. C. A. hostess houses; in fact, every 
branch of war activities was in evidence, all 
uniformed and enthusiastic — if the sea was not 
too rolling. The first querj^ was: "Where is j^our 
home?" Everyone seemed to find somebody he 
had met or who had met someone he knew. 

Well out of sight of land, soldiers in brown blos- 
somed on the decks below, fore and aft. The old 
demands for ship-service as in peace days were 
silenced and transformed into a slogan of help- 
service for everybody. The luxurious salons and 
promenade decks were thrown open to the soldiers, 
while cigarettes and baskets of candy were show- 
ered upon them. It was a voyage exemplifying 
the mellowing influences of democracy in war 
times. 

Approaching Europe, the fever of expectancy 
as to submarines increased. Drills with life pre- 
servers were called the first day out. As each 
assembled, every one looked his lifeboat mates 
over with curious social concern. Some appeared 
in unsinkable suits, like ghostly spectres from 
subterranean depths. All speculated as to just 
what they were going to do in the event of "six 
sharp whistles." I was a member of Boat 8, 
which, with several stout gentlemen and a few 
ladies to match, had an impressive crew. The 



12 Well Stick to the Finish 

stout people at once formed a firm and fast alliance, 
holding regular meetings on starboard boat deck. 

The first glimpse of land brought a quiver like 
that Columbus must have felt when he sighted 
the shores of San Salvador. The dashing American 
destroyer hove in sight, and we immediately had 
a feeling of complete safety when we saw the 
Stars and Stripes astern the craft. A rim of land, 
with tiled roofs skirting the distant shore, brought 
a welcome relief after eight tense days on perilous 
seas. Miles and miles of new docks were included 
in the vista. A veritable forest of piling already 
driven to provide for endless wharves on which to 
land troops and supplies, brought to mind the tri- 
umph of American constructive genius at Panama. 

What a welcome sight actually to see Uncle 
Sam's uniform in France! Hails of welcome came 
from both shores as the boat sailed up the river. 

"Where are you from.^^" was the greeting across 
the water, from every nook and corner, from the 
tops of houses — all in our own tongue! This 
brought a thrill. 

Landing at Bordeaux and at night, the air was 
heavy with the fumes of wine. There was no 
question — this was Bordeaux! The open parks 
and available spaces on the streets were filled with 
cases of automobiles and supplies on their way to 



C'est la Guerre — It is the War 13 

the front. The whole city seemed like a giant 
camp behind the lines. The quaint little Hotel 
Pyrenees was a haven, and I hastened to dinner. 
The lilacs were in bloom, distilling in the dining 
hall their soft fragrance at eventide. And yet as I 
sat there it seemed suddenly lonely. Just then a 
wee tot of four, with large brown eyes, orphan of a 
French soldier, unconscious of the grim realities of 
war, climbed up to my knee. Her childish chatter 
in French was like music. '^J^vu saiw" (I love 
you), she confided. Then added sadly, ''Papa 
parti" (papa gone), ''Maman perdue'' (mamma 
lost). When she threw her little arms around my 
neck and kissed me, France had won my heart! 



Ill 



PARIS UNDER BOMBARDMENT 



THE soft slumber of the night ended rather 
abruptly in Bordeaux next morning by the 
crashing strains of a French military band. 
They seemed to be calling me to Paris. Paris in 
war time ! What wonder that my blood flowed fast ? 
For a moment I indulged in a reverie — thinking 
of La Belle France and the little tot of the night 
before, who this very day was to embark for my 
own America! 

There was little time for dreaming, for "Boots" 
bounded into my room, showing in his broad smile 
teeth rivaling the shine he had put on my shoes. 
He was a diplomat in the full sense of the word; 
what else could I do except pay him well when 
he addressed me as *'A Big Gun from America?" 
But "big guns" was the absorbing thought in the 
mind of ^e very ^Frenchman. 

He started to tell me of the long-range "Bertha," 
but before I had time to comprehend, I was made 

(14) 



C'est la Guerre — It is the War 15 

to realize that even a civilian tourist is on a war 
footing and subject to call. 

The 'phone rang, and in muffled tones a pleading 
voice — accent decidedly American — asked, "Can 
you come to my room?" Entering, I had visions 
of some great over-night secret, when there fell on 
my ears this distressed question: "Joe, can you 

help me put on these d d puttees? You must 

or I'm 'sub'd,' and can't report to headquarters." 

It was a fellow-member of the fat men's alliance 
of life boat No. 8. He couldn't manage the spring 
clutch. At least I began the day well, for I saved 
the dignity of a Red Cross major. 

Before proceeding to Paris, short excursions 
were made in the rural sections of Bordeaux, largely 
to feel the pulse of the people outside of official 
circles. In these journeys one thing stands out 
pre-eminent, and that is the French woman. 
Nearly every one you meet wears mourning. Their 
faces are bathed in a chaste resignation. You see 
them on street cars and trams, for here thej^ act 
as motorwomen and conductors, although retain- 
ing their accustomed preference for skirts. They 
are everywhere, in the iSelds following the plow, 
for they, too, are truly "in the trenches." 

Now we are on toward Paris, through the 
chateau district, with its touches of the ancient 



16 We'll Stick to the Finish 

nobility of France. Everywhere Americans are 
arriving. It was nightfall when we reached Paris. 
It was practically in darkness. The few lights to 
baffle bombers were shaded a ghastly blue. The 
Stygian blackness was a decided contrast to the 
brilliant glare of peace times. It was hard to 
believe that this was the Paris of long ago. Not 
one bright light anywhere. The curtains in the 
railway trains and in every house were drawn 
tight, for a light at night is criminal. It was as 
if we were in another world. 

The railway station presented a scene of inde- 
scribable confusion. The German long-range gun 
was busy. Hundreds of thousands of people, 
realizing that Paris was being shelled from Ger- 
man territory rather than bombed from airplanes 
in the sky, were fleeing the city for safety. They 
stood in long lines before the ticket window, or 
sat on their baggage surrounding the line, the 
trunks and bags looking like miniature fortifica- 
tions. They had been waiting all day for a ticket 
of leave. Mothers with families were there. It 
was like a land rush in Oklahoma. Certain ones 
brought food to those in Kne in order that the 
"waiters" should not lose their places. Emerging 
through the station we sighted a vacant omnibus 
in the darkness, which was chartered after an 




WOODROW WILSON. PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES 




Copyright, Elliott & Fry, Ltd., London, W. 

COL. EDWARD M. HOUSE 



C^est la Guerre — It is the War 17 

hour's parley. Rumbling through the once gay 
Rue de Rivoli, faintly before us gleamed the 
golden bronze statue of Jeanne d'Arc — the only 
ray of light — typifying the unconquerable spirit of 
France. Scattered here and there were green buoy 
lights bearing the inscription "Abri 80 persons." 
These were refuge places in times of raid. 

The boulevard was as silent_as 'a churchyard, 
except that the "big Bertha" shells boomed every 
twenty minutes like a death knell. In the hotel 
was a strange silence. A solemn few loitered 
late over coffee. The streets were deserted except 
for stragglers here and there, who unconsciously 
either whistled a warning or uttered some sound 
as they approached. That night an air raid was 
on, but afterwards, when the "all clear" signal 
was given, there came a quietude like that of the 
old farm which only the crickets disturb, except 
in this instance it was broken by the occasional 
honking of automobiles, sounding like a school of 
barking walrus. Shiveringly I crawled into bed, 
not knowing what the night would bring. I came 
to the mental decision, "Well, if the bombs 
are coming, they'll come," and, kicking off the 
young feather bed, I slept soundly in bombarded 
Paris. 

Morning found me without a bread ticket. The 



18 We'll Stick to the Finish 

cafe chairs outside on the pavement looked like 
spectres. The waiter could not understand my 
English, nor would he understand my hungry 
motions. I had to report to the Prefecture of 
Police, and before I had complied with the regu- 
lations of a civilian stranger entering Paris I had 
spent forty-nine francs in taxi fares. 

In the basement of a dingy old municipal build- 
ing, famous as the quarters of Voltaire, I received 
a pain ticket which looked like a calendar. For 
each day there was a coupon to clip off, and I felt 
like a Croesus as I enjoyed my first legalized bread 
in Paris. There was no butter or sugar. They 
handed me a bottle of saccharine, and the first cup 
was properly loaded; but the second cup caught 
the pearly drops from a cruse of vinegar nearby, 
mistaken for saccharine, and one cup of chicory 
was lost. 

Champs Elysees, now covered with war huts, 
recalled memories of the laughing throngs of former 
days. Few people were to be seen in any of the 
parks. Any American who had been in Paris three 
or four months was a veteran with a great wealth 
of incidents as to the sufferings and deprivations 
he and others had endured. 

A young American officer with some friends 
invited me to lunch. He said, "We will go to 



C'est la Guerre — It is the War 19 

Maxim's and see how it compares with the 
good old daj^s, and if it looks like the stage 
setting in the 'Merry Widow.' " He hailed a cab. 
We entered with a lordly air, the cab started, 
wheeled around the corner, and — we were at 
Maxim's — the next door. I am told that the 
American Red Cross is utilizing the two upper 
floors and that these gay environments also serve 
as quarters for the chaplains. Maxim's was a 
war meal in name only. There was nothing lacking 
in the way of food, providing there is a maximum 
bank roll to match. The real difficulty in getting 
something to eat in Paris is in the morning, for the 
cafes do not open until nine — the old leisure hours 
are not entirely gone. 

In my journeys among the French people, 
outside the purely political and cafe centers, 
especially in the little stores or homes and village 
plazas, I obtained some insight into the mind 
of the masses as it exists after four years of 
the most cruel war. With an alert interpreter, 
many of their comments were noted, especially 
those favorable and unfavorable ones about the fat 
American. The valorous spirit of France was 
omnipresent. A group around a coffee table was 
discussing in subdued and earnest voices the 
mystery of the big gun. One officer in the group 



20 Well Stick to the Finish 

was later dismissed for repeating a false rumor of 
victory. Comment, on the part of soldiers, is es- 
pecially forbidden. When the big gun first boomed, 
it was thought to be some new kind of air raid, but 
Paris was becoming accustomed to these. When the 
alarm is given by the siren whistle and the fire 
department is in action, people rush to the abri, 
or into metro or subway tubes, where they remain 
until the safety signal is given. When the truth 
was realized, due to the regularity of the firing, 
and with no airplanes in sight, the long-range gun 
brought a shudder, especially in one district within 
the range. 

There was something weird in the "dud" or shell 
of the "La Belle Bertha" found in Paris. A "dud" is 
a shell which did not explode. The bombardment 
killed more people than the siege of Paris in the 
Franco-Prussian war. That does not mean as 
many fatalities, because in the siege deaths 
were mostly from starvation. The British had a 
gun in 1885 that carried sixty miles, but this 
gun had a range of approximately seventy miles. 
The long-range "Bertha" is not a mystery. It is 
an eight-and-one-quarter shell fired from a fifteen- 
inch gun, very thin, with brass rims to protect the 
gas. The skill was in calculating the range. It 
was fired eighteen miles high at an angle of 66 



C'est la Guerre — It is the War 21 

degrees. The rarified atmosphere at this tremen- 
dous height offered less resistance than lower 
altitudes and the shell fell at an angle of 60 degrees. 

The wonder of it all is that the Germans were 
able to find the target and make their calculations. 
They could not change their aim readily, and 
that is why the shells nearly all fell in one particu- 
lar district of Paris, and why there were busy 
times moving to get outside of the firing line. 
When the gun was silenced for a few nights, there 
was a relief, but then another "Bertha" bombed 
forth. 

When the residents started to leave the citj^ as 
this big gun began to deposit shells with frightful 
regularity, some of the French defeatists began 
crying, ''C'estfini" — it is finished!" They praj'ed 
the government to again move the capital to 
Bordeaux. One man stood adamant — it was the 
"Tiger" — Clemenceau. In the turbulent ups and 
downs of his stormy public life, Clemenceau had 
added another chapter to the story of his 
career. He became the man of the hour. He 
refused even to argue, declaring, "No, this is the 
capital of France; we do not leave. If you go, 
you may be shot as deserters." 

The crisis passed, for Clemenceau knows no fear. 



IV 



FACE TO FACE WITH CLEMENCEAU— 
"THE TIGER'* 

FOR years in far-off America I heard of a 
man, prominent in French affairs, a teacher 
in a New England institution in early life, 
and one of the outstanding figures I wished to 
meet. On this side of the water people do not 
realize the power of that personality in the present 
world conflict. The moment you are on French 
soil, among the soldiers and workers, you hear 
the name before you leave the dock. It gathers 
lustre every hour of your journey and haunts 
you after you have come away — and that name 
is Clemenceau! 

On the train I met a peasant woman who had a 
basket of eggs. She gave me one, and together we 
enjoyed the trick of sucking the contents through 
a pinhole — and that old French woman voiced 
the same sentiment when she said to my inter- 
preter, "Tell the American our hope is in Clemen- 
ceau." Nearby sat a pensive young woman in 

(22) 



C^est la Guerre — It is the War 23 

weeds. There was a tender melancholy in her 
dark eyes that one could not forget. She had 
been suffering, having lost her husband, father, 
and four brothers. She ate her simple luncheon 
in silence, but at the name of Clemenceau her eyes 
brightened. Then, too, there was a young French 
boy of sixteen, testing his English, who told me, 
in broken accents, young as he was, how anxious 
he was to take the place of his father who was 
killed at the Marne, adding: 

*'I seem to hear the voice of Clemenceau calling 
me to fight." 

In the cafes and on the streets there was the 
same talk of Clemenceau. All this recalled an 
interview I had with the late W. T. Stead (who 
went down with the Titanic), at his home in 
Wimbledon, in England, in 1906. The wizard 
interviewer of world celebrities referred to Clemen- 
ceau as the "Warwick of French Politics." 

My first question to the American Ambassador 
in Paris was: 

"Do you think you could arrange for me to 
see Clemenceau?" 

Mr. Sharpe replied: "I'll try— but I think not." 

His telephonic message to the War Department 
did not promise much, although the Ambassador 
sent in my name and graciously offered to go with 



24 We'll Stick to the Finish 

me in person. Remembering the tribute which 
"Boots" had paid me, I was still determined to try. 

The appearance of Clemenceau in the Chamber 
of Deputies is an event, and the people flock to 
hear him and always read his every utterance. 
Seated on the upper bench, ready for all comers, 
shielding himself in tantalizing tersity, Clemenceau 
fearlessly meets every situation face to face. 

More by chance than anything else, a day or 
two later I wandered into the Chamber of Depu- 
ties, an ancient building, dating back to the time 
of the Louis'. Large throngs were waiting for 
admittance long before the hour the Chamber 
convened, many of them speculating what Cle- 
menceau would do. The admission card to the 
gallery from the Ambassador acted like magic, 
for the usher, in evening dress, with a chain about 
his neck (the insignia of his office), conducted me 
into the plush-lined box directly opposite the 
presiding officer. There I saw the members, seated 
on small benches rising above each other in narrow 
tiers which formed a semi-circle. The glass roof 
and rather dim light made me think of our Ameri- 
can Senate Chamber. There was some excitement 
in the debate, although it involved but the inter- 
pretation of a word in the Pension Bill, as to 
whether a soldier should have a pension if 



C'est la Guerre — It is the War 25 

imprudence could be proved — the old question of 
contributory negligence. The members did not ri.se 
during a colloquy and everybody seemed to talk 
at once, without the courtesy of addressing one 
another. High up on a bench sat the presiding 
officer with a bell — not unlike the old dinner 
bell — which he would ring for order when the 
discussion became too riotous. 

While I could not understand the drift of the 
discussion, action and gesture spoke louder than 
words. On the elevated benches behind the 
speaker were the few members of the cabinet. 
A startling revelation came to me as I glanced over 
the Chamber — there was no flag of France in 
sight — and to the American mind this was a shock, 
recalling the great flag which hangs in the House 
of Representatives and the American devotion 
to the national colors. The gallery seemed to lack 
interest — for Clemenceau was not there. 

Where he was I did not know. Perhaps he had 
been putting in most of the day at the front, for 
it was his custom to go out at dawn and hold 
conferences with Generals Foch,Petain and Persh- 
ing. He forms the connecting link between the 
armies in the field and the Chamber of Deputies. 
Whatever he finds is needed at the front he goes 
to the Chamber to see that it is provided. His 



26 We'll Stick to the Finish 

visits to the American troops are meraorable occa- 
sions. The American boys crowd around him and 
he has a greeting for all. 

The Chamber of Deputies meets at two o'clock 
in the afternoon, and it was rare in the old days 
that Clemenceau did not appear. Like Mann and 
Kitchen of the House of Representatives, or 
Gallinger and Overman of the United States 
Senate, Clemenceau seemed to know every feeling 
and caprice of passing legislation. He sensed 
the hour when parliamentary squalls were coming. 

From the boy of nineteen, when he was arrested 
at the foot of the Bastile column for shouting 
"Vive la Republique/' on to the time when, at the 
siege of Paris, he returned to be elected maire 
of the 18th arrondissement, and even up to the 
present, he was being fitted for the glorious sunset 
of his career. The allied struggle is providing 
the setting for the admonition which his father 
once gave him. When his sire was arrested at the 
time of Napoleon's coup d'etat in 1851, young 
Clemenceau, his soul aflame, said to his father: 
"Father, I will avenge you!" "If you want to 
avenge me," cried the sire — "work." Retiring 
at eight every evening and rising at three every 
morning, it may be questioned if any other man 
in conspicuous public life adds greater luster to 



C'est la Guerre — It is the War 27 

the word "work" than the ever-active French 
Premier. 

The ups and downs of his pubHc career have 
been many. He, with others, was embroiled in 
the Panama Canal scandal, but he came out un- 
scathed. He laid all his private accounts before 
his accusers which revealed that he had even 
borrowed money of a notary in order to live, and 
was unable to give his daughter a marriage portion, 
being obliged to live for years in the same house, 
paying for his furnishings on the yearly instalment 
plan. 

The dramatic story of the Chamber of Deputies 
for the last forty-seven years finds no more con- 
spicuous figure than Clemenceau. He belongs to 
the severe French school of literature. In speaking 
and writing, his style is as polished as a rapier, 
and he meets his opponents with the art of a 
fencer, having engaged in many physical duels. 

From the day, seventy-seven years ago, when 
he was born in Brittany, in the little village of 
La Vendee, where the granite promontory thrusts 
itself out into the sea, its ragged rocks ever battling 
with wave and tide, Clemenceau has exemplified 
in private and public life those rugged physical 
and mental qualities suggestive of the place of his 
birth. 



28 Well Stick to the Finish 

As I wandered back through the corridors and 
secured my hat and coat from the check room 
(the same as leaving a theater), I went down to 
the lobby where the members of the Chamber 
gather after adjournment. Here my courier, Pace, 
took me in hand. 

I told him I must see Clemenceau. He shook 
his head. I said again I must. He took my re- 
marks literally, and almost before I knew it we 
were passing through an old corridor alongside a 
wall, and through a gate into another ante-room. 
At each gate my passports and letters were 
examined. Finally we crossed a courtyard and 
entered a rambling low building which was the 
headquarters of the Minister de Guerre. As Presi- 
dent of the Chamber, the Premier of France is the 
real ruler of the republic, and it is given to every 
premier to choose his own portfolio. Clemenceau 
naturally decided to head the War Department. 
Inside another room, where a covered billiard table 
indicated relaxation in peace days, my card was 
again taken in, and I indulged in a hurried 
glance around. A voice speaking in English in 
the adjoining room was heard. Just then the 
same voice was saying; and supplementing the 
words in French; "That's persistence; show him 
in." 



C'est la Guerre — It is the War 29 

Little did I realize that this was the voice of 
Clemenceau. 

I entered a somewhat darkened room. In an 
open grate smoldered a dingy coal fire. A medium- 
sized figure was moving toward me. On his head 
was a small, round hat with triangular earlaps 
tied overhead. As I neared I saw a certain ironical 
smile on his face. But there was no mistaking the 
countenance. In less time than it takes to tell it, 
I was face to face with Clemenceau — "the Tiger." 

I had no sooner extended greetings from America 
than immediately a warm hand was thrust into 
mine, and he said, with a power which thrilled me: 
"I love America." Clemenceau is not a man of 
words. In no sense does he pass for what is called 
a polite man. Yet there was such a ring of sin- 
cerity in his words that I was strongly drawn 
to him. 

When I announced that I was in France to get 
some good stuff for the American people to read, 
and asked him what he read, he interrupted 
quickly, saying: 

"Read.^ I read nothing. Newspapers, maga- 
zines, nothing! This is no time for me to read — 
it is time to work and act — work to win the war." 

As his clear, and to me surprisingly, epigram- 
matic English fell on my ears, I was ready myself 



30 We'll Stick to the Finish 

to go out and fight for this man. With a wave of 
his hand, he proffered a chair. In seeking for some 
common ground on which to stand, I found myself 
searching for a touch of gentleness which he 
had portrayed in the one novel {"Le Plus Forf) 
which he has written on the philosophy of 
superman. 

As he squared himself and I looked into his eyes, 
I saw a face of rugged strength. I recalled his 
christening with the sobriquet which he bears 
today. As Clemenceau entered his editorial den 
one night, a French journalist turned to his friends 
and said: "Here comes the Tiger." And from 
that day to this the name has been spelled with a 
big T rather than a little one. 

His face is round, made massive by high cheek 
bones, his eyes, deep-set, flash with the glint of 
steel, though at times are liquid with tenderness. 
His brow is broad and high. A drooping mus- 
tache covers what I knew to be a strong mouth. 
His head is bald, set off at the height of his ears 
by silken gray hair. His gestures consisted largely 
of a sweep of the hand across and in front of him, 
as if pointing out the whole field of action. Occa- 
sionally he brought his fists down like a hammer, 
every movement indicating a dynamic man, full of 
power and electric energy. The wisdom of age and 



C'est la Guerre — It is the War 31 

the strength of youth in rare combination. No 
wonder Germany fears him! 

Some who have talked with him have remarked 
about his flippancy. There was none of it apparent 
in my ghmpse of the man. He was in dead earnest 
about everything. The only trace of lightness in 
his speech was when I pointed to a portrait on 
the wall saying: 

"A great man, I suppose.^" 

"An ass!" he jerked. 

Pointing to another, he anticipated my question, 
and said: 

"A very great man. We must have contrasts." 

"Our American boj-s are arriving," I ventured. 

"Yes," said he, "and they are learning to dig, 
like our own Poilus. It is better to lose four men 
than four hundred." 

His secretary entered and said something to 
him. Then I noticed the clear, legible writing of 
the Premier as he made a few notes. When I indi- 
cated that I sometimes made speeches, he said: 

"I make no more speeches. It is time to work. 
No time to talk. 'Yes' and 'No' cover essentials." 

Evidently he carries out that conviction. At 
the Allied Conference in Paris, the one man who 
could have talked made the shortest speech on 
record. "We're here to work; let us work." 



32 We'll Stick to the Finish 

When the question of politics seeped into our 
conversation he snapped, "I do not like politicians, 
I like patriots." 

No wonder the French people recalled him to 
lead their destinies in this, their hour of greatest 
crisis! A hater of shams, a lover of realities, a 
patriot, in no sense a partisan, this Spartan has 
only one consideration — his country. 

How fortunate, indeed, is France to have him. 
His active life covers two great wars. When the 
King Charles' peace letter, making overtures 
looking toward the autonomy of Alsace-Lorraine 
was mentioned, he said: 

"I know the German tricks — and so does the 
United States." 

He probably, as no other living man, is alert 
for Prussian intrigues. Schooled in literature, in 
medicine, in science, in politics, in diplomacy, he 
brings his vast knowledge to bear on the one 
vital purpose — the triumph of Democracy. 

As I saw him, whether standing, sitting in a 
chair, or perched on the edge of a table dangling 
his feet, he acted as if he were accustomed to 
premiership. 

Some dispatches were brought in. Taking them 
up, he made his notations on each with a plebeian 
lead pencil — a word or two at most — and passed 




Copyright by I'nrlcrwooil tt Underwood 

PREMIER CLEMEXC EAl OF l'l{A\('E 




Copyright by American Press Associaiion 

FRENCH "75" BOMBARDING GERMAN TRENCH 




Copyright by UmUiwuud dL- i nderwood 

CLEMENCEAU, "THE TIGER." REVIEWING BRITISH TROOPS 



C'est la Guerre — It is the War 38 

them on. No fuss, no haste. Every movement 
strong, determined, clear. "I may be dead," he 
said, glancing up, "when this war is won, but — it 
will be won!" 

I ventured to ask him if he had met any of the 
Commission from America looking toward post- 
war conditions. 

"Yes," he said, "but this is not the time for me 
to think of that. The work of the war comes first." 

Then drawing his chair so close to me that his 
knees touched mine, putting one hand on my 
shoulder and clenching his fist, he assumed an 
attitude like that of the tiger he is. There was 
fire in his eyes. His great jaw set; he said: 

"It is the supreme thing in my life to win the 
war." 

I arose to go. The slanting sun shone through 
the window of the old building. 

"Have you any message to send to America?" 
I ventured. 

With a pathos like that of a benediction and as 
comforting, he said: 

"Tell them I love America." 



WITH PERSHING AND HIS MEN 



NATURALLY the first man I wanted to see 
on arriving in France was General John J. 
Pershing. What American wouldn't? For- 
tunately for me, he had just arrived in Paris from 
the front. The message that he would see me no 
sooner came than I was off. 

His pretentious headquarters are located in the 
palace built by Napoleon's old guard, Marshal 
Lanes. The monogram M. L. still stands in the 
gable of the roof. The approach is by a crescent 
driveway. A great array of chalk-covered auto- 
mobiles stood about, giving evidence of having 
just come in from the front. The house is owned 
by Mrs. Ogden Reed of New York, who graciously 
turned it over to the government for General 
Pershing's headquarters. 

As you enter the spacious reception hall, an 
information desk stands at the extreme end and 
over it on one side is the tri-color of France, and 

(34) 



C^est la Guerre — It is the War S5 

on the otlier the Stars and Stripes, so placed that 
their folds join in clinging embrace — eloquent 
emblems of the affectionate unity of the two 
republics. 

Colonel Boyd met me and took me for a hurried 
glance around. The pictures hanging on the 
walls were covered, as was also the luxurious 
furniture. All the splendor of the old palace was 
shrouded in the gray monotone of war times. 

Through one of the rooms used with others for 
conferences, I was conducted to the rear and into 
a luxuriant rustic garden — the scene of many a 
social function in the old Empire days. In the 
center stood a small tea-house surrounded with 
irregular benches. Trees of great age pushed out 
of the sod. Shrubs graced the nooks and walks. 
All were resplendent in golden spring green. 
Birds even were singing in the trees. It was a 
delightful sylvan retreat in the very heart of Paris. 

It was in the dining-room to the right of the 
reception hall that I stood in the presence of Gen- 
eral Pershing — the man on whom rest the eyes 
of all America. Can I ever forget the moment or 
the wave of emotion which swept over me! As 
he advanced to greet me, I forgot for the time the 
great general he was. His manner was so simple, so 
cordial, so characteristically American, he seemed 



36 Well Stick to the Finish 

more like a brother. Clad in a plain khaki 
uniform adorned simply with the insignia of his 
rank, on his breast was the prismatic service 
ribbon. The fine lines of his face were drawn into 
a determination I had never before seen. Even 
his mustache was croppy and bristling. His 
movements and words were few. Responsibility 
rested heavily upon him. Yet underneath all 
radiated a marked tenderness and gentle regard. 

Every moment of his time contained such a 
deposit of duty that I merely told him I was 
the bearer of a flag sent by the women of Boston 
for the 26th Division. I recited to him the occa- 
sion when, at a brilliant military ball at the Copley- 
Plaza in Boston, the commission to deliver the 
flag was imposed upon me. He had received 
newspaper clippings of the event and was some- 
what familiar with the import of my mission. 
When I told him that in speaking on this occasion 
I had talked on "Chivalry," he arose quickly from 
the round table and impassionately said: "Chival- 
ry — that's the thing! There is not a man in the 
ranks who has not the thought of some woman in 
his breast, and that woman is thinking of him. 
That's the anchorage of the American Army 
today — the American woman." 

Then relaxing for a moment, as if duty called. 



C'est la Guerre — It is the War 37 

he said: "Are you ready to go to the front?" I 
assented. Suddenly pointing outside, he said: 
"See this beautiful garden. Here is my oasis. I 
come here often for a glimpse of this restful spot, 
even for only a moment, before returning to the 
chalky roads which lead to the front." 

We turned away from the garden to the 
dining-room. On the table, among other things, 
was a pie sent by an American woman for the 
General. 

"That brings back visions of old Missouri," 
said the General. And for the first, and only time 
I think, I saw a smile on his face. 

Just at this time a message came for him. I 
saw the lines deepen on his face as he said, "I 
must be off to the front." 

The world will not soon forget his speech to 
Generalissimo Foch, delivered during those memor- 
able daj's in March and April, 1918, when the 
German waves were washing over the barriers 
of the British and French, and when, sinking all 
pride in his own separate army, he offered all the 
forces of the United States in what are destined 
to be immortal words: "Do with us as you like." 
That utterance will live alongside Lincoln's Gettys- 
burg speech as long as American history is recited. 

It was made on March 28th, the darkest day 



38 Well Stick to the Finish 

of the war, and was magical in its effect on France 
and the AUies. 

( Translation ) 
"DO WITH US AS YOU LIKE" 

In the course of a reunion, which was held on the 18th 
of March, 1918, at the front, to which General Petain, 
M. Clemenceau and M. Loucheur were present, General 
Pershing was presented to General Foch and said to him: 

"I come to say to you that the American people will 
consider it a great honor that our troops may engage in 
the present battle. I ask it in my name and in theirs. At 
this time there is no question but to fight. The infantry, 
the artillery, and the aviation — all that we have, is yours. 
Do with us as you like. Other troops will be coming in 
such numbers as will be found necessary, 

"I am come expressly to say to you that the American 
people will be proud to engage in this greatest battle of 
history." 

Pershing's speech has been printed in French 
on a small card which just fits into the pocket. 
The General's picture is at the top and underneath 
the famous sentence, "Do with us as you like." 
It is not an unusual thing to see soldiers take 
this card out of their pockets saying, "This is our 
French text-book." 

Shortly after my arrival, I met a young ojBScer 
who had returned from one of the gatherings where 
Pershing delivered one of his classic addresses to 
his officers. His face was aglow. He said: "Any- 



C'est la Guerre — It is the War 39 

one who wouldn't be ready to go to glory for the 
old flag after hearing Pershing talk is not an 
American." 

Other officers, as they came out of the barracks, 
were imbued with the same spirit, and in them 
there was evidence of a reconsecration to a great 
cause. 

To read his famous speech to Foch, one can 
easily imagine the kind of talk he gives to his 
officers. 

Leaving the headquarters, I made my way 
to the office of the Provost Marshal at Rue Ste. 
Anne, located in an old hotel. Every American 
who goes to the war zone and every soldier who 
comes to Paris must report here. I wanted a 
military pass to the zone of operations. It was 
given only after every detail had been covered. 
It was stamped and re-stamped. Here all the 
American communiques are given out, and the 
censoring of mail is done. While standing there I 
heard a colonel giving and saw officers receiving 
telephone messages from the front. It was as if 
they were talking with some one in a far-off land, 
and in my imagination I could almost hear the 
roar of the cannon. 

Scattered along the streets were American 
soldiers, the first I had seen in any considerable 



40 We'll Stick to the Finish 

numbers. Only one thousand American soldiers 
are allowed in Paris at a time. In the hotel I saw 
them sitting at a big mess table eating their chow. 

Ste. Anne's is the first place soldiers go on 
arriving in France, and it is a jocular saying 
commonly heard among newcomers, "Have you 
been up to Anne's?" 

Once out on the boulevard I made haste for the 
train. American soldiers with bands marked 
M. P, on their arms looked up in surprise when I 
approached. They did not expect to see an 
American in civilian clothes. When addressed 
they would smile and say: "When did you arrive?" 
"When do you expect to go back home?" 

I came near missing my train in taking the 
addresses of those to whom they wished to be 
remembered. 

As I passed Hotel Mediterranean it seemed 
familiar to see soldiers from the Quartermaster's 
Department playing baseball in the park. Though 
I had but a moment, I could not resist pausing 
and joining in the well-known shouts. Reaching 
the gate at the station, I found to my embarass- 
ment I had stowed away my pass so carefully that 
not until I had turned some twenty-two pockets 
inside out, could I find it, and then it was in the 
first pocket I had searched. Such is the perversity 



C'est la Guerre — It is the War 41 

of a military pass. Because I kept the procession 
waiting, the gate-keeper directed somewhat em- 
phatic French at me. 

Once on the train, I found myself surrounded 
with soldiers, one of whom was a lieutenant from 
Minnesota. On his arm were two stripes, in- 
dicating that he had already been wounded 
twice at the front. I listened to the incidents 
he told in open-mouthed wonder, yet they were 
related in the most matter-of-fact way. 

At last I was off to the front. A fever of 
interest grew with every mile. In a short time 
we were skirting the Marne, looking at the now 
historic battlefield where the surging tides of steel 
had met. The early spring verdure was aglow 
and Nature was making a brave attempt to hide 
the ugly scars of the terrible conflict. Here and 
there was a clump of trees, their white hearts still 
torn open as if to indicate where the scourge 
swept on. There were the roads along which 
Galleni's hastily organized taxi-cab troops rushed 
at the critical moment to stem the helmeted Hun 
and save Paris. Later I stood in the fields where 
hundreds of thousands had died. The Marne 
coursed its way onward to the sea placid and 
serene, giving little indication of the tumult that 
had surged around it. At far-off Amiens and Arras 



42 We'll Stick to the Finish 

the guns were booming in the effort to check the 
thrust toward the Channel. 

Winding our way through the valleys, there 
were fresh evidences of war's devastation. On 
the little railroads flat cars loaded with men and 
guns were making their way toward the battle 
front; on other trains French troops on a furlough 
were going home. 

Leaving the train at Gondrecourt, we took a 
motor for the zone of operations. Out across 
flat plains, suggestive of the prairies of Dakota, 
our car sped on. The distant boom of the guns, 
faint at first, increased in number and tone with 
every mile of the journey. Now and then our car 
would edge past lines of troops going to the front — 
and they were our boys, too! As I went by I felt 
ashamed to ride. I wanted to get out and walk 
with them. Then we would encounter artillery 
as it rattled along. The soldiers always saluted 
and we felt proud to return it. Sometimes I saw 
them in the French villages fraternizing with the 
natives, picking up and exchanging phrases and 
winning popularity. Now and then motor-cycles 
flew on, the riders covered with white chalk of the 
roads. Orderlies, goggle-eyed and dust-covered, 
looked like beetles as they whirred away to and 
from headquarters. 



C*est la Guerre — It is the War 43 

This was the Valley of the Meuse, dotted with 
farm-houses that were grouped in little villages. At 
Domremy we found the birthplace of Jeanne d'Arc. 

"Let's sing it," suggested Bristol, and out rang 
the popular song of "Joan of Arc." It ended w^ith 
the stirring refrain of the "Marseillaise." 

Approaching farms, it was rather shocking to 
the esthetic taste to find manure piles in the front 
yard rather than in the rear of the barn as in 
America. Yet the question of fertilizer is an 
important one, and the size of the manure heap is 
an indication of the wealth of the farmer. The 
natives seem to be well accustomed to living 
rooms adjoining stables. 

It was in this primitive village, far from the 
gay life of the city, that the Maid of Orleans was 
born. Her home stands sheltered by a group of 
scraggly trees. Children were playing in the yard, 
seemingly all unconscious of the historic setting. 
Nearby is the church where she was baptized, 
while yonder on the crest of the hill stand the 
beautiful memorial towers erected on the spot 
where she saw the vision and went away to 
lead the armies of France. Here the flower of 
young American manhood was coming to shed its 
blood to help save the France she had defended. 
In this sector held by American troops, the spirit 



44 We'll Stick to the Finish 

of Jeanne d'Arc will linger and find a worthy 
reincarnation in the soldiers from over seas. 

After two hours' ride over circular roads and 
across wide stretching plains, through village after 
village, we came at last to Neuf chateau. The first 
Yankee Division was stationed here. The quaint 
little old buildings, shops and courtways are today 
familiar objects to our American soldiers. The 
"M. P." is at the street corners directing the 
surging traffic the same as on Broadway. Every- 
thing in the army is designated by initials. Over 
one office is the *'A. O.," and over another **C. O.'* 
and so on, each combination having its own 
meaning. 

At Neufchateau the billets of the American 
soldiers were in barns where cattle had previously 
been stabled. With customary regard for sanitary 
conditions, these structures had been cleaned 
until the group of buildings resembled a dairy 
lunch kitchen. 

At Boucq I visited the quarters of Sibley, of 
the Boston Globe. It furnishes a good sample of 
the billets occupied by some soldiers. It is situ- 
ated on a crag at the corner of a road. A narrow 
hall runs through the middle of the building, 
opening off of which is Sib's bedroom. Directly 
across the hall on the same floor is the cow's room. 



C'est la Guerre — It is the War 45 

Chickens have the right of way in the houses. 
When "Sib" retired the previous night he found 
two chickens roosting on the high post at the head 
of the bed. 

Standing on the high hill or parapet at Boucq 
at night and overlooking the Valley of the Meuse, 
I had my first glimpse of a creeping barrage. In 
the distant darkness the line of fire could be clearly 
seen. It was like spraying fluid flame from a 
nozzle or a crackling prairie fire. It was one of 
the most haunting spectacles I ever witnessed. 
On the night of my arrival at Neufchateau I 
thought I might have to come back to headquar- 
ters, but my chauffeur told me I could stay with 
him. He was from Waco, Texas. He said: "I 
came down here to break horses for the cavalry, 
but there is no cavalry and so I am breaking 
automobiles instead." 

It was dark when we set out for what he spoke 
of as his sleeping quarters. We had no lights, and 
he drove with a devil-may-care spirit, making the 
telephone poles whizz past in a continuous stream, 
and lighting up the darkness with lurid profanity, 
arriving in front of a pretentious stone house at 
one a.m. Going in he led me to the front room in 
which there was a piano, paintings on the walls, 
and a carpet on the floor. On one side stood a 



46 We'll Stick to the Finish 

high-posted ancestral bed and on it I noticed an 
eiderdown quilt. "This is my room," he said. 

"How do you manage it.^*" I queried. 

"Oh, a snap," he answered. "Room and break- 
fast, eight francs a week!" 

In the morning I learned the reason. There was 
a knock at the door and the kindly -faced matron, 
wife of a French captain at the front, appeared 
to ascertain why my companion was still sleeping. 
I was up and shaving. Going to the bed and 
waking him with motherly solicitude, she pointed 
to the clock to signify he was late in getting up. 
In his broken French he tried to tell her that 
he was late in getting in. Quickly jumping into 
his clothes and while winding his puttees, three 
girls passed the door which the elderly woman 
had left open. They called out to my companion, 
"Bonjour! Monsieur." And then, as if to explain 
how he happened to have such quarters, he said: 
"I'm engaged to one of them, but I'll be darned 
if I know which one it is." 

But a night in the trenches! There's not much 
humor there. It was sable night as I entered. I 
could have wished for a moon, but that would 
mean a raid. The stars shone with double magni- 
tude. It was gruesome business stumbling over the 
duck boards, perhaps missing and going knee-deep 



Cest la Guerre — It is the War 47 

in the mud. Except for an occasional sentry, 
there is next to nothing to see or do except just 
grope. Even after the sentry gets your password 
and spirits himself into darkness, there is no sound 
save splashing feet. 

Coming to the first firing shelf, it may be that 
Fritz has accommodatingly thrown up a flare, 
revealing a white face peering into the Hghted 
gloom— but even he does not turn to look. The 
Germans have a star-shell with a parachute, which 
floats over the lines for a long time — a devilish 
contrivance, lending picturesqueness to the scene. 
Firing posts multiply, and in each there are eyes 
watching, not you, but out into the darkness. 

Moving on you know there are countless sol- 
diers near, but you see them not. They are down 
in the dugouts asleep, or consuming the smoke of 
a smouldering fire. A night in the trenches! The 
tensity of it all no tongue can tell! 

And dawn.? How eagerly eyes look for the first 
spires of light in the distant horizon! In that 
semi-darkness it is as if you were looking over a 
dead sea — wave after wave rolls away, but all 
are motionless. 

Imagination works on high speed, and over that 
field of death Boches are coming straight toward 
you, not one but many. The plop of the machine 



48 We'll Stick to the Finish 

gun, the waking mortar, the whinny of the bullet 
causes a heart throb to answer every explosion. 
No wonder eager eyes look for the dawn! 

One soldier said to me, "I've seen more sunrises 
in France than I ever saw in my whole life before." 

Yet even in the trenches there is some humor. 
One incident I shall never forget. Seated on 
one of the sand bags was a soldier who proved to 
be a Scotchman. He was distinguished from the 
others by the sweep of his hand downward and 
over his coat. At first I thought he was brushing 
off the dust and the mud, but while I watched the 
wincing movements of his shoulders, I suspected 
it was something else. It dawned upon me in a 
jiffy — they were "cooties." As he continued 
brushing, I said, "Getting rid of them, Jock?" 

With a rich Scotch burr, he replied, "Oh no; 
just taking them as they come." 

Aside from the mud, it was about the only thing 
I brought away from the trenches. Jock was 
getting ready to go back of the lines for a "dip," 
which means that while he is getting his "dip," 
his clothes are "dipped" also. 

As I came away, the air was filled with planes, 
circling to and fro and humming like a reaper in a 
distant harvest field, taking, it may be, their toll 
of death. Sausage balloons were forming a line in 



'<m 



DISPOSEZ DE NOUS 
COMME IL VOUS PLAIRA 

Au cours d'une reunion qui fut tenue le 28 mars 1Q18, 
sur le front et h laquelle assistaient le g6n6ral Retain, 
M. Clemenceau et M. Loucheur. le g6n6ral Pershing 
s'est presents au general Foch et lui a dit: 

Je viens pour \ous Jire que Ic pciiplc amci'i- 
cain tiendrait a grand honneur que nos troupes 
fussent engagees dans la presente hataille. Je vous 
le demande en mon nom et au sien. 11 n"y a pas 
en ce moment dautrc question que de combattre. 
Linfanterie. I'artillerie. Taviation. tout cc que nous 
a\onsest a vous. Disposez-en comme il \ousplaii-a. 
II en viendra encore d'autres, aussi nombrcux 
qu'il sera necessaire. 

Je suis venu tout exprcs pour vous dire que le 
peuple americain serait fier d'etre engage dans la 
plus belie bataille de I'Histoire. 



•DO WITH IS AS VOU LIKE" 

Printed ill Frciirli, tlicsc famous words of Pershing's arc ffivcn widi 

c-ircuiation (See page 38) 




Cvpyiight by Cummittee on Publu Information 

GENERAL JOHN J. ("FIGHTING JACK ) PERSHING 

The telegram he is reading interests him — it tells of an American advance 



C*est la Guerre — It is the War 49 

the sky, indicating the battle line below. With 
sky alive with destruction, and earth rocking with 
eJtplosives, I needed nothing more to realize — this 
was war. 



VI 



WITH THE AMERICAN TROOPS 
IN A GAS MASK 

AFTER a few hours in the zone of operations, 
I began to feel like a regular soldier, for I 
was now given my own gas mask, duly 
initialed. Soldiers are as careful about their gas 
masks as they are about their tooth brushes. Woe 
to the man who appropriates another's gas mask, 
or carries off his match box — an unwritten law 
soon learned. 

On this day everyone was ordered to take his 
gas mask. There was a full attendance at the 
rehearsal, the time consumed in adjusting it 
varying from four to forty seconds. The forties 
were left behind. 

Only one in the party was ununiformed, but he 
had qualified, and when they saw him sailing past 
in the motor car, the coat tails of his summer 
overcoat flying, they said: "He looks like a real 
lady." 

The mask is carried in a knapsack, slung 

(50) 



C'est la Guerre — It is the War 51 

over the shoulder Hke a hunter's pouch. Some 
of the soldiers had two, a short-lived one for emer- 
gency, and another capable of enduring for a 
longer period. 

I began experimenting with my gas mask to see 
if I could break my record of twenty -three. The 
same shudder came over me as I adjusted it and 
took the rubber bit in my teeth, for it must be 
held firmly in the mouth. The nose grip put an 
end to any breathing I had known before. All 
air must come through the neutralizer and be 
drawn into the mouth through the rubber tube. 
The first sensation is that of smothering, especially 
if the contrivance is not adjusted properly. 

Remembering my speech of the night before, 
one of the lieutenants said: "Now we've got you 
fixed properly; we're protected for awhile anyhow." 

I had just taken it off, saying, "What's the 
use of practicing when there's no chance to use 
it?" Our motor buzzed on. 

Our laughter suddenly ceased. For through 
the air came a strange sound, an intermittent 
"zip," "zip," "zip." The chauffeur chucked on 
the emergency, shouting, "There's a gas shell 
now! Dive quick!" The masks were on before 
we reached the ground. In a ditch by the side of 
the road, close to Mother Earth, we waited. 



52 We'll Stick to the Finish 

Lying face down, looking through the goggles 
at the beetles in the grass, I had never been so 
close to nature before. Just then I felt like bugs and 
little ants, with whom I had something in common. 
I had often used the expression "Mother Earth," 
but had never understood it before. For the first 
time I realized that it would not be so hard to 
be buried in her arms after all. For was she not 
even now protecting me from Heinie's mustard 
gas? 

Feeling a little cramped, I found courage to 
move one leg, when I heard something — a "z-zish- 
h-h-h" in the air — which sounded like the Twen- 
tieth Century Limited rushing by. Again I sought 
a closer acquaintance with the creeping things 
and dirt. 

It was not necessary for anyone to tell me that 
it was a '75 or better. It doesn't take long to 
learn the peculiar song of the shells. 

My close study in entomology, which seemed 
hours in duration, was interrupted by the lieuten- 
ant, who called out, "All clear." When I pulled 
off the mask, just common air never seemed so 
good before. 

The roads were lined with piles of crushed 
stone to be used for repair at a moment's notice. 
Trees planted by order of Napoleon had been 



C'est la Guerre — It is the War 53 

ruthlessly cut down to supply timber. Gaunt 
stumps haunted the highways. Roads used for 
centuries were sunken under the strain of traffic. 
On either side of the highways farmers were at 
work in the fields, though within the range of 
the guns. Along the roads, curling through the 
valleys like tarnished gold, were long lines of bat- 
teries hurrying to and from the front, those return- 
ing covered with mud and having the appearance 
of hard service. Yet in the eye of every soldier 
there was the "go-glint" and gleam which said, 
**We are coming back with some German bacon." 

Spinning through the villages beyond the speed 
limit, we came to the great American aviation 
headquarters, where the fighting squadron is 
located. There was supreme satisfaction in hearing 
that the French, British and American air forces 
had secured the mastery of the Vodka, Fokker and 
Gotha machines of the Huns. Subsequent records 
have more than verified the camp talk at that 
time. The dashing spirit of the Allied aviators, 
together with their swift machines, have checked 
the venturesome Boche. 

The thrill of one group cannot be described, 
when we saw Winslow leave the earth with a 
swoop, just missing the Boche as he came across 
the line, and with a masterful nose dive bring him 



54 We'll Stick to the Finish 

to the ground. This was all compassed in six 
minutes, a stop-watch being held by one of the 
machinists. Six brief minutes from the time of 
the ascent until the Boche had made a ghastly 
dent in the sod. 

The "aces" talk little of their work, insisting 
it is not a matter of deliberation so much as 
instinct. They give no reason for the things they 
do — they just do them with an unerring intuition. 
The fine sense of balance, coupled with the daring 
and vitality of youth, is making itself felt in the 
aviation records. 

When the Allies began bombing German cities 
there was the cry of "Kamerad," and the Germans 
protested against attacks on civilians and non- 
combatants, forgetting what they had been doing 
with impunity in myriad raids over France, 
England and Italy, their victims numbering into 
thousands. Among the aviators the feeling pre- 
vailed that attacks from the air would yet play an 
important part in ending the war. 

Soaring dragons swooping down from the sky, 
like the vengeance of heaven, fires the imagination 
of the fighting squadrons on Allied aviation fields. 
Here the houses were covered with spruce trees, 
and camouflage was everywhere in evidence as 
we neared the range of guns. The objective 



C*est la Guerre — It is the War 55 

point of our trip was Toul, the great canal center 
of France. It is here one reahzes how much of 
the traffic of this nation is handled by canals. 
Seventy per cent of the population of France are 
farmers, and most of their produce is transported 
by canals. This land of the ancient Gauls has for 
centuries been producing sustenance for a mighty 
race. In an old deserted residence, where the 
assistant Provost Marshal lived, we had to show 
our passes. Here the soldiers had drawn a calendar 
on the plaster of the wall with lead pencil to keep 
track of the dates. Apparently there was a dearth 
of 1918 calendars. A tiny military narrow-gauge 
railroad paralleled the road, and the little locomo- 
tives as they pushed along their loads looked like 
toys compared to America's great mogul engines. 
They seemed to be trying to compete with the 
rumbling army trucks and Red Cross caravans 
which crowded the roadways with supplies for 
the troops. 

At is located a great veterinary hos- 
pital in which were thousands of horses — some 
had been wounded in all sorts of ways, some were 
stone blind from mustard gas, although, like the 
men, they will recover their sight in a few weeks. 
Every horse in France is valuable, being worth 
over a thousand dollars, and they are given every 



56 Well Stick to the Finish 

care. In vast barracks, originally built by the 
Germans during the Franco -Prussian war, was 
stationed the famous regiment. This regi- 
ment held a meeting that evening, and I never 
heard a more ringing speech than that delivered 
by the Colonel to his men, and his tribute to their 
clean and sturdy manhood, as indicated by their 
medical tests and in the work which they had 
accomplished, would have moved the folks at 
home could they have heard it. 

Apples, which had just arrived from their native 
state, were being distributed. We sat about in the 
dim candle light eating them, as at a Hallowe'en 
party. 

Around a bend and up a hill, still passing 
sentinels who stopped us for identification at every 
turn, we came upon an old chateau, headquarters 

of the division. It was owned by a retired 

French oflScer, and had been in his family for 
years. Here I enjoyed baked beans (my favorite 
Boston Saturday evening dish) with the com- 
mander, and it was to him I delivered the flag from 
the women of Boston and gave their message to 
the boys. An air of peace and quietness prevailed, 
but it was the ominous silence which precedes an 
attack from the "storm troops" of the Germans. 
It was hard even then to realize that we were 



C'est la Guerre — It is the War 51 

within reach of the great guns of the greatest war 
in history. There was a grim look on the face of 
the General as he said: 

"It seems quiet today, but we can never be 
sure." 

While I was at Major General 's head- 
quarters, an orderly announced that a young 
soldier was dying at the hospital. When his name 
was given, the General said, "Look up and see if 
he hasn't a decoration." He learned that none 
had come in. The Major General got up and went 
down to the hospital and found the boy. The 
General patted him on the chest and said: "It's 
all right, my lad, you've won the greatest honors." 

The boy had missed the Croix de Guerre, the one 
great passion of a soldier, but he had gained some- 
thing far greater: he had won the commendation 
of his Commander, and died supremely happy. 
For the soldiers see the cause through their 
superior officers. 

Returning to headquarters, the General, his 
jaw set, and his lip slightly trembling, said: "By 
God! our boys have discipline and stout hearts." 

The rewards of service on the battlefield were 
shown on the day when the 104th regiment was 
decorated by General Passaga, commanding the 
32nd French Army Corps. The whole regiment 



58 



We'll Stick to the Finish 



was drawn up on the parade grounds, and amid 
impressive ceremonies and the music of bands, the 
Croix de Guerre was pinned to the regimental 
colors, and over a hundred individual members 
were also decorated with the Croix ds Guerre. The 
order was as follows: 



32nd Army Corps 

Staft 

let Bureau 

PERSONNEL 



H.Q. April 26th, 1918 



GENERAL ORDER No. 737/ a 

General PASSAGA, commanding the 32nd Army Corps, 
cites in Army Corps Orders: 

104th Regiment op Infantry, American, 
under command of Lt.-Colonel G. H. Shelton: 

"For greatest fighting spirit and self-sacrifice during action 
of April 10th, 12th and 13th, 1918. Suffering from very heavy 
bombardments and attacked by very strong German forces, 
succeeded in preventing their dangerous advance and with 
great energy recaptured at the point of the bayonet the few 
ruined trenches which had to be abandoned at the first onset, 
at the same time making prisoners." 

General PASSAGA, 
Commanding, 32nd Army Corps 



The fight at 



a few days before had 



resulted in many casualties, but it had also made 



C^est la Guerre — It is the War 59 

the German traveling circus pay dearly. Up early 

at 4 a.m., and through the trenches, General 

surveys the day's work before the dawn, because 
it is not safe around the trenches in the daylight. 
A division headquarters is run with all the system 
of a great manufacturing plant. The airplane 
scouts go over the enemy lines daily and bring 
back pictures showing locations of the fortifications 
of enemy troops. These photographs are printed 
and every detail studied. Nothing is overlooked 
by the watchful eyes along that twelve-mile sector. 

The division was the first to be organized 

in France, and it was the first to take over an entire 
sector. The headquarters of an army are spread 
out in fan shape. The division headquarters are 
at the apex of that fan. Then, on either side, are 
located the brigades, and spreading from the 
brigades are the regiments. From the regiments 
are the companies, usually three in front and two 
behind. It may be some consolation to American 
mothers to know that it is for very little time, at 
best, in the movement of troops, that their boys 
remain in the front lines. They move forward to 
the front and then to the rear automatically. 

When I rode over to the new headquarters of 
the 102nd regiment, made up of Connecticut boys, 
I met the heroes of a bitter fight, in which the losses 



60 Well Stick to the Finish 

were heavy. On cots of straw the boys from New 
Haven, Bristol, and Hartford were resting, and it 
was from their lips that I heard the story of their 
hard-fought battle, told with all the piquancy of 
a bear hunt. All these men were eager to take 
their place in the front line trenches, and not a 
face along the line, in spite of the casualties, 
had a look of hesitancy. One brought forth a 
lapel taken off a German, No. 257. He also 
showed me a pistol which he had taken from his 
prisoner. 

The General suggested that I see the soldiers 
in a regiment which was doing actual fighting, 
advising that I mingle with the boys freely, getting 
their first-hand stories, rather than lingering 
around the officers' mess. 

I visited this regiment, which was a few miles 
distant. Arriving at dusk, I could see the blinking 
light of three or four candles. As I drew nearer, 
the major and the officers were sitting around a 
table, talking over the day's doings. The little 
major, who had been in the thickest of the fight, 
was at the head of the table, looking as uncon- 
cerned as when constructing typewriters. In 
chumming with the boys I had heard how much 
they thought of him, and made free to tell him so; 
but he was too modest even to reply, and continued 



Cest la Guerre — It is the War 61 

introducing the other officers, some being from the 
French Army. 

"It seems good to see something from home," 
said the merry adjutant, feeHng of my summer 
overcoat. 

"Tomorrow may be a busy day," said the 
major quietly. The face of every officer turned 
toward him, for the officers know by sHght signs 
what may come. Soldiers have an uncanny intui- 
tion of orders before they are issued. They notice 
even the way the cook puts away the kettles. 
Nothing escapes them. It recalled what Bismarck 
wrote to the German leaders in one of his last 
letters: "Beware of going to war with the quick- 
thinking and quick-acting Americans." 

As I went out among the soldiers, I realized 
afresh what he meant by the quick adjustment 
the regiment had made to the new conditions of 
their camp. Little things showed the inventive 
knack of the Americans. 

All have an ambition to bring back some trophy 
— a helmet or pistol — anything belonging to the 
equipment of Fritz. The "hunting spirit" is keen 
among them. On the firing line and under fire 
one day, a fellow who had been a billing clerk on a 
railroad, was turning over his souvenirs to a com- 
rade to take back for him. He, with habits long 



62 We'll Stick to the Finish 

formed, insisted on an inventory. "Give me a 
receipt," he said. And he got it. 

The inventive traits so prominent in Americans 
all come out in the army service. One man has 
invented a mouse-trap, and it's a wonder. 

In our declaration of war, the phrase, "all our 
resources" have a new meaning in the new and 
striking inventions which are coming from the 
brains of our soldiers. 

Listening to what might be called their bed-time 
stories, I heard incidents of their recent big fight. 
They all laughed when the Borisky adventure 
was told. The little clothing clerk of a year ago 
was about to surrender to a number of Germans 
when his quick eye discovered they were wounded. 
Plucking up courage, he emptied his revolver into 
two of them and took the other — a big husky 
Boche — making him step along lively, pricking 
him under his coat tails. As he brought in his 
prisoner he shouted, "Ain't he a beauty .f^ I've got 
a ready-made suit for him." 

In moving about the gas masks were constantly 
needed, for all unexpectedly a gas shell would 
come along, and on would go the gas mask. There 
was nothing else to do, and nobody was taking 
chances. Over the field were observation balloons 
with telephone wires attached, from which every 



C^est la Guerre — It is the War 63 

movement of the enemy was watched and the 
location and range of the German gmis recorded. 
The discovery was made that the graveyard 
which had puzzled the American gunners was 
movable, and that the Boche had transferred it 
to another point during the night. Imitation vil- 
lages and churches are often constructed with 
which to baffle the observer. Every day is a battle 
of wits to deceive the enemy. The constantly 
occurring question is, "What is Fritz up to?" 

At the front the days slip away so quickly that 
all thought of time is lost. Watchfulness is the 
chief business. There is very little glancing at the 
wrist watch, except to make sure it is time for 
mess. Great shells whizz intermittently and in a 
brief time even the novice learns to identify the 
different kinds of shell it is by its song, and can tell 
which way it is coming. Nobody is too proud to 
run for shelter. Hair-breadth escapes are common, 
indeed almost incidental to the day's work, and 
are hardly deemed worth recounting around the 
mess at night. The shelled territory is a gruesome 
sight. Pictures taken from an airplane show not 
only the villages, but every road and path clear 
and distinct. Later pictures after a bombardment 
reveal every building, road and footprint in these 
same centers entirely obliterated — a vast honey- 



64 We'll Stick to the Finish 

comb of craters. No desert could be more deso- 
late — not a tree, railroad, culvert, or living thing 
remains. Everything is flattened to the ground. 
Finding the Germans were indulging in one of 
their favorite pastimes of pelting the crossroads, 
we made a detour. It had been a busy day with 
the gas masks. Four real alarms were sounded. 
We came to a group of farm houses. Being 
hungry, the chauffeur said: 

"I know a place where a salad grows." 
As we drew up before a house, I inquired of the 
perennial son-in-law prospect: 

"Do you know any daughters here?" 
A little old lady with a cap slightly set off with 
a meager fringe, admitted us. She didn't seem to 
need any words to tell her what we wanted, but 
hustled away to the kitchen. While sitting there 
I noticed an old square piano, which reminded me 
of my mother's Steinway. Pictures on the walls 
showed nearly every generation, from Louis XIV 
down. Over the mantel, as is the custom now, 
was a small American flag. I sat down to the 
piano and placed my hands on the thin, worn 
keys. The sound which issued forth was metallic; 
the instrument was badly out of tune. But the 
lieutenant insisted that it was the "Star Spangled 
Banner" and stood up. 




Cupyri'jilt Oj/ ('iJiiiinilUt un Public Jiijurimiliuii 

IN THE FRONT LINKS 

Sccrclaty Milker in.s])i'ctitif; ji (liifioiil 




('iijijiri'jhl hj/ Ciimmilli I mi I'lihlic Informntioii 

IN NO MAN S LAND 
French and Aiiicricaii officers cutting' l)arl)('(l-\\ ire ciilaii^lcmciUs ])i'c])aral(iry 
to an infanlrv attack 




Copyright by Committee on Public Iiiformation 

ON THEIR WAY 

An infantry detachment passing through front-line trenches 




GERMAN PRISONERS ON WAY TO PRISON CAMP 



C*est la Guerre — It is the War 65 

The music brought the little old lady into the 
room, with her spoon still uplifted. She said, 
"Marseillaise." And I must confess it, I could 
not plaj^ it from memory; but I have learned it 
since, and will never be caught again without its 
stirring strain in my repertoire. 

A monster bowl of spring salad, carrots, pota- 
toes, onions, dandelions, radishes was set before 
us. And the dressing — that was the triumph! 

Contrasted with the activities of the front are 
the services of the S. O. R. (Service of the Rear). 
Here there is no glare of the guns; it is a question 
of moving supplies. At Neuf chateau was the 
stout form of Billy Lavere, Y. M. C. A. secretary, 
with his customary greeting: "Were you born in 
this town?" to the boys as they passed. An incident 
about Billy is worthy of mention. He came across 
a lone army mule, which seemed to be only 
slightly wounded. Knowing the value of mules, 
he tried to push him into a shell hole for safe 
keeping, where he could later be picked up. The 
mule balked and argued to such an extent that 
Billy and a companion who was with him were 
both kicked into the shell hole. A second later 
the mule was blown to atoms. His hoofs scattered, 
and the only remains were a few strips of black 
hide. 



66 We'll Stick to the Finish 

If the sum of treasure spent in this calamitous 
conflict on these fields could be computed, every 
square acre could be overlaid with gold. I thought 
of this as I looked over these broad stretches now 
dotted with golden buttercups, so soon to be torn 
with ghastly shell holes and sprinkled with human 
blood! The picture will not soon be forgotten. 

If another touch was needed to heighten my 
view of the battlefield, it was given when I saw 
cars of American wounded, each brave soul 
shouting, or singing, or cheering one another; with 
now and then, it may be, a call for "mother." 
It wrung my heart. 

During all my journeys in the zone of operations, 
not once did I see Old Glory at the head of any of 
the troops, either going or coming. I did not 
realize this until I returned to headquarters, where 
the presence of the flag flying in the breeze recalled 
it to me. 

Whether to hide from enemy observation the 
character of regiments, or to emphasize the actual 
alliance with other nations, the brigading of all 
in one great army of democracy — whatever the 
motive — it remains a startling truth that not 
once could I recall having glimpsed the Stars and 
Stripes on the battle-field. 

But there it waved, proudly waved. I thought 



C'est la Guerre — It is the War 67 

I had venerated it before, loved it for all it stood 
for, and yet — and I swear it — to me it was a new 
flag, for I saw interwoven in it the living tissue of 
flesh and blood. Its fleld of blue was no longer 
merely forty-eight formal stars, but in their place 
a constellation — every one of them the face of 
Pershing and his men. 



VII 

UNDER THE RED CROSS BANNER 
IN FRANCE 

WHETHER it was the raid of the night, 
resulting in nervousness, or my eagerness 
to be doing things, I cannot say, but 
almost before there was any stir in the streets I 
found myself standing before the Madeleine. In 
other days no edifice had moved me more. Di- 
rectly in front, and down the street, is the Place 
de la Concorde. Here is located the American 
Red Cross headquarters. Being too early for the 
opening of the doors, I went to the monument of 
Alsace and Lorraine nearby, which years before 
I had seen wrapped in mourning. It was then 
draped to express the sorrow of France over the 
loss of her two beloved provinces. Now it was 
sandbagged for protection against air raids. Yet 
it was startling to see the tri-color of France 
waving from a festooned wreath in the waxing 
light of the morning — prophetic hope of the 
future! 

(68) 



C'est la Guerre — It is the War 69 

In a flash the narrative of Daudet*s "Last 
Class" came over me. It was in Alsace-Lorraine. 
The school had assembled for the last recitation 
in their mother tongue. The Prussian edict had 
gone forth that the hour of twelve would end the 
use of the French language in Alsace. No mother 
could even croon a lullaby or a father address his 
heir in the language of his birth. By one stroke 
the Hun was to tear out by the roots the tongue of 
the people. 

The village people gathered, a great concourse 
of them, to hear the school master's last words, 
which proved to be a tribute to the French tongue. 
Suddenly the clock in the church tower struck 
noon; — then the Angelus. At the same moment 
the trumpets of the Prussians sounded under the 
windows. The school master arose, very pale, but 
never seeming so grand and good. "My friends," 
he said, "I — I" but he could not finish. Turning to 
the blackboard, he took a piece of chalk, and 
gathering all his strength, wrote, in letters that I 
seemed to see blazing in the glorious light of the 
morning on the monument, ""Vhe la France!" 

In that moment I knew, if never before, why the 
American Red Cross was in France. 

The American Red Cross headquarters at Place 
de la Concorde is located in a club building, and 



70 We'll Stick to the Finish 

once the home of a most exclusive organization. 
Even now the same aristocratic atmosphere per- 
vades the place. The adornment is that of simple 
elegance. The finest taste was exercised in its 
furnishings. Every foot bound hither on errands 
of mercy today presses the most expensive rugs. 
On the walls there is a lavish display of paintings. 
Yet this all-exclusive club responded to the all- 
inclusive call for help and turned over to the Red 
Cross its magnificent rooms. 

Instead of a place of luxurious repose, it has been 
transformed to a hive of industry. Its palatial 
salons are now offices. The winding stairway is 
a public thoroughfare. Each room is marked 
with large numerals, as, for example. Room C 14, 
or B 17. Here were dignified Red Cross majors 
hustling about, nurses and pretty Red Cross girls 
with the insignia of the United States on their 
shoulders, and the good old Yankee twang with a 
new accent on the lips of all. 

The American Red Cross is creating for itself 
a high place in the estimation of the people of 
France. New recruits are arriving every day. The 
girls are not known by name, but simply as "the 
girl who came from Chicago," or **the girls who 
arrived on the Espagne." Social distinction is 
lost. The whole staff of workers constitute a 



C'esi la Guerre — It is the War 71 

democratic fraternity. Some are assigned to base 
hospitals, some sent to Italy, some to remote places 
in France, while others assist in the work at 
headquarters. 

Ascending five long "tops" of stairs, accom- 
panied all the way hy the rapid-fire clicking of the 
typewriters, I reached the office of Major J. M. 
Perkins, head of the American Red Cross in 
France. The room was decorated in the most 
ornate style, with a sky blue ceiling in which the 
birds seem really alive and flying. The French 
seem to know how to make a lamp post look artistic. 
They also have the art of making strangers feel at 
home. In such exclusive environments, Major 
Perkins looks after the multifarious details of the 
Red Cross help, his careful handling suggesting 
high executiveship. 

Many names well known in American life are 
to be found on the roster. Society women of Fifth 
Avenue in jumper and apron, with stenographers 
from Posey County, are unraveling problems 
together. It is a veritable clearing-house. Most 
of these workers have now exchanged the Saxon 
"yes, yes" for the French ^*oui, oui." 

The French telephone is a puzzle. I first 
attempted to use it here at the Red Cross rooms. 
Unless you hold your hand down on the lever 



72 We'll Stick to the Finish 

while talking, your conversation is lost. The 
French trumpet and earpiece are one, and many 
a new arrival has appeared foolish looking for the 
mouthpiece when it is already under his chin. 
The greeting "hello" of the French girls as you 
take up the instrument sounds, with their pretty 
accent, like the Hawaiian "aloha." A babble 
of voices in many different languages is heard 
on every side. A French conversation on the 
telephone never seems to cease. The operator 
calls up again in about ten minutes after the final 
word and inquires, ''Avez vous fini?" Americans 
have developed one French and one English ear 
to meet the exigencies. 

All this made it an event at the Place de la Con- 
corde when the American telephone girls arrived, 
who, with nimble tongues and quick ears, were at 
home in two languages. Attired in uniforms, the 
American operators looked to be perfectly capable 
to put "pep" into even the language of Napoleon, 
and they soon straightened out many tanglements 
and tempers. Many Americans speaking "ship- 
board" French get into a muddle of words. It is 
very easy to convey the opposite meaning of what 
you want to say! 

Every hour enhanced my admiration for the 
French people. Their courtesy is ©specially shown 



C*est la Guerre — It is the War 73 

in devotion to children. In front of Hotel Crillon 
Ambassador Sharpe pointed to a passing family 
group. Children of parents too poor to buy had 
been provided by the Red Cross with a trinket or 
toy. The innate courtesy and respectful address 
is a pleasing contrast to the brusqueness of the 
average American. 

At the American headquarters I made the 
acquaintance of a gentleman who was rendering 
valiant service in translating the needs of every 
race and tongue. He was then at the head of the 
Reception Corps. His knowledge of foreign lan- 
guages and his even temperament helped in the 
Babel of tongues. The news came that his little 
boy was dead. His strong frame shook with emo- 
tion as he told of little Bapino. All the science of 
American surgery at the Red Cross hospital had 
been used to save the two-year-old child, but to 
no avail. Although I had not known the father 
long, I felt drawn to him, for I remembered 
when the same dark cloud came to my home. I told 
him I would attend the funeral on Sunday. Many 
Americans sent jSowers, and when the little casket 
was carried along in the arms of the father for the 
solemn rites by the priest — it seemed almost as if 
a little soldier had fallen. The little white hearse 
was covered with a blanket of flowers. I walked at 



74 We'll Stick to the Finish 

least two miles behind that hearse with the 
stricken father, the Boy Scouts of the Red Cross 
as honorary escort following. Soldiers and offi- 
cers saluted as the procession passed, and civilians 
uncovered their heads as a mark of respect. 

At Neuilly on the Seine the little form was laid 
away in a flower-strewn grave. The priest was 
unable to come and at the father's appeal that 
some little word of prayer be uttered, I myself 
volunteered. My language was strange, but all 
hearts were in unison with sympathy for the 
parental heart. This was one of many children 
who sickened and died during the air raids of the 
unpitying Huns. 

The arrival of American troops through France 
aroused the highest enthusiasm. One news- 
paper writer, in characterizing their appearance, 
gravely records that "the high cheek bones and 
features of the North American Indian were the 
hallmarks of many faces." In the language of 
George Ade, I just "laffed" at his words, but the 
next day furnished an illustration of the eagerness 
of the French to find something in us "like them." 

A young French oflBcer, a blue-eyed Alsatian, 
six feet or more, stood with me watching the in- 
coming American troops. He was soon to leave 
on a dangerous mission from which rumor had 



C^est la Guerre — It is the War 15 

it he will never return. This day, perhaps his 
last in beloved France, gave his accentuated words 
a new emphasis. "Why," he said, with simple 
assurance, "they are just like us, Monsieur, their 
very walk, their look — it is only the uniform that 
is a little different." 

For the moment I was lifted beyond all trifling 
differences in khaki, features and mannerisms, 
for the young officer in his God-given vision had 
seen in our soldiers as they marched by, the kin- 
ship of souls. 

Major J. M. Perkins is daily confronted with 
new and grave problems of Red Cross activities, 
but with the characteristic energj^ which marked 
his career as a banker in Boston and New York, he 
directs the movements of his battalions, works as 
a general in the field, dashing here and there, and is 
always in personal touch with the work. A journey 
to Lyon in southern France with him furnished a 
glimpse of the diversified work of the American 
Red Cross in conjunction with the French organ- 
izations. Ensconced in a cochet, which is merely 
a night car bench to stretch out on — there was no 
mattress or covers — we thought of the Pullman 
at home. In our compartment — and there were 
four in the box — was a Belgian senator, who 
challenged me to a snoring match. I won. The 



76 We'll Stick to the Finish 

Major didn't sleep — but sat up looking for live 
game with his flashlight. 

At Lyon is located the tuberculosis sanitarium 
for the French repatriate women. Six months ago 
it was a barracks, before that it was a bath house, 
before that it was an empress's castle, today it is 
a tuberculosis hospital where the American Red 
Cross is caring for French repatriate women. It 
was the Empress Eugenie who gave the chateau 
to the city of Lyon, and it was the Hospital Board 
of Lyon who gave it to the American Red Cross. 

The city is only a short distance away, but it 
might be a hundred miles, the air is so clear. The 
grass on the terraces is thick and green, the trees 
are cool and shady. Below the chateau garden 
the ground drops sharply and slopes away through 
field after field to the Rhone river. The ammuni- 
tion factories on the other bank are so far away 
that they are only soft gray shadows against the 
sky. 

The windows of the wards open wide on peace- 
ful country views. But the women in the wards 
are much more interested in the American visitors 
whom the brusque American doctor is talking 
about. "Bonjour, Mesdames." "Bonjour, Mes- 
sieurs," — each one bows a ceremonious little bow, 
leaning forward from her piled pillows or raising 



C'est la Guerre — It is the War 77 

her head, ever so little, with a feeble smile. The 
doctor explains that there is nothing which gives 
them so much amusement as to hear him talk 
French. He says a few words to one of the 
women to prove it and the whole^ward chuckles 
gleefully. 

The women are divided according to the stage 
of the disease, so that more or less similar treat- 
ment can be carried on in each ward. When they 
are well enough to be out of bed most of the day, 
they go out into one of the wooden barracks, where 
they live practically in the open air, and where 
they are given light work to do and from which, 
in time, some of them will be sent back to their 
families after they have learned how to take care 
of themselves and not spread contagion among 
those with whom they live. 

They are all repatriates, these women and girls, 
whom Germany sent back to France for the very 
reason that they have tuberculosis. Among the 
thousands who pour through Evian on the Swiss 
border, at least thirty-five, sometimes as many 
as sixty-five in every thousand, are afilicted with 
the disease. The Red Cross has a hospital admis- 
sion bureau in Paris which places these people in 
American hospitals and in French institutions all 
through the country. Lyon, which is so near to 



78 We'll Stick to the Finish 

Evian, where the repatriate convoys come through 
from Germany, is a particularly good place for a 
hospital. The General Hospital Board of the city 
offered the Americans the chateau of Sainte 
Eugenie. The building and the newly-constructed 
barracks they gave rent free. They provided 
beds and bedding, heat and lighting, water and 
plumbing, disinfection and food. The Red Cross 
furnishes doctors, nurses and medical supplies. 

It is not to the soldiers alone that the American 
Red Cross has brought its comforting aid, but to 
all those in distress or need wherever found. 
Great has been the organization's work among 
the armies, but greater still is its work among 
these repatriate women because it is helpfulness 
softened with tender interest and compassion — 
the protective compassion of the big American 
brother for his sisters. 

As I walked among the patients, I asked a dear 
old lady her age, having complimented her on her 
smile. 'T am not too old to be admired,'* she said 
shyly, "but am too old to mind telling my age. 
I am one hundred next month, and life is still 
glorious in the hopes you have brought to France." 

Under the trees overlooking the Valley of the 
Rhone, where German prisoners were at work, the 
patients seemed most hopeful of restored health. 



C'est la Guerre — It is the War 79 

A tuberculosis hospital can never be a gay place, 
and yet many of the women and girls at Sainte 
Eugenie are happier than they have been for many 
months. They are back again in France. They 
have warm and comfortable beds. They have 
air and sunshine. They have delicious food and 
plenty of it. Back and forth through the wards 
move Sisters of Charity in quaint white coifs. 
They are repatriates, too, who come every day to 
read to the patients. But better almost than 
sisters or nurses or doctors, so it seemed to the 
American visitors, are the trees on the terrace, the 
big branching lindens clipped French fashion. 
Under their branches the nurses set the long 
reclining chairs, into the chairs they tuck the thin- 
faced women, wrapping them warmly in woolly 
blankets, and there they lie, hour after hour, in 
the sun and the soft wind, while little by little 
health and hope come back to them. 

It was here that Mr. H. P. Davison, chairman 
of the American Red Cross, came on his tri- 
umphal return from Italy. The mayor and digni- 
taries of the city met his party, and thousands 
of school children gathered on the plaza to pay 
him homage. Mr. Davison was presented with a 
large bouquet, which included a branch of palms 
(symbol of victory). These he carried with all the 



80 We'll Stick to the Finish 

eclat of a bridegroom. His address was most 
modest, yet deeply sympathetic, reaching all 
hearts. 

Perhaps the most impressive incident of this 
magnificent reception was in the flags which many 
of the children carried in their right hand and 
with which they waved a greeting. There were not 
enough ready-made flags to go around. But the 
unquenchable spirit of these little ones could not 
be denied. With their own hands they made 
small flags of strips of silk, cotton, flannel, or what- 
ever came to them. But the colors were true. 
Never was there deeper gratitude than waved 
resplendent in their creations of the Red, White 
and Blue. 

The complete story of the work of mercy at the 
front can never be told until after the war. Each 
day furnishes some new and diversified incident, 
which at the end will find its place in the color 
of the picture. The essentials in the organization 
in the various centers are the same. The applica- 
tion of these principles is modified, or changed 
to suit the particular need. The flexibility of 
this organization, whose one working creed is 
mercy, is one of the features of the war. 

At base hospital No. 1, near Toul, was my first 
glimpse of the treatment of those actually wounded. 



Copyright, 
Harris & 
Ewing 




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C'est la Guerre — It is the War 81 

Here were the same sort of beds, attendants, 
nurses, and surgeons to which we are accustomed 
at home. The uniform, the surgical instruments, 
the dressings, were all familiar. The self-same 
fumes of anesthetics filled the rooms. But the 
wounded! Ah, that was the difference! They were 
different than any I ever saw, and different than I 
ever hope to see again. Men who had been 
gassed, being led along, the film of darkness over 
their bloodshot eyes; some unable to walk — a 
limb gone; others with bandages around their 
heads, and more with faces torn, needing expert 
facial building. Every case is different, yet every 
one calls for known and often unknown resources 
in surgery and nursing skill. A careful record is 
kept of each patient, serving as a compendium of 
knowledge in the treatment of those yet to come. 
Cases could be multiplied, but I give one as 
exemplifying the heroism of our men. One poor 
fellow had lost his right arm. ^Yith that strange 
premonition which sometimes precedes accident, 
he was seen writing one day with his left hand. 
When asked by some of his comrades why he did 
so, he said: "I feel as if I was going to be hit, 
and I was seeing if I could write a letter home 
with my left hand." Strange fatality! When he 
returned from the next battle, his right arm was 



We'll Stick to the Finish 



gone. I saw him lying there and tried to cheer him. 
Instead of being cast down, he said: "I guess 
when I get home I shan't need to tell them where 
I've been." 

I looked out the window to hide my emotion. 
And through the mist in my eyes I could see the 
distant Lorraine mountains, and I wondered if 
there was any peak too high to commemorate 
bravery like that. Outside I could see the red 
of a few tulips blazing in a bed; tiny blue violets 
were peeping out of the ground, while the apple 
trees were just then massed in blooms of pure 
white. Even Nature had hung out her banner of 
red, white and blue in honor of such heroes! 



VIII 



A SUNDAY VISIT WITH MARSHAL JOFFRE 



MY first Sunday afternoon in Paris was 
made memorable by an interview with 
Marshal Joffre — at the Ecole L'Militaire, 
the West Point of France. I had traveled with 
him on his famous American tour, and now 
looked forward with pleasure to a renewal of that 
acquaintance. I brushed my hair, as nearly as I 
could remember, in the manner he wore his. With 
as much military bearing as I could command I 
passed up the broad stairs to the reception room, 
and was greeted by Major Fabre, the "Blue 
Devil" of Alsace, whom I had previously met on 
the American tour. While I was waiting he 
recalled incidents of the fast and furious visit in 
America, even mentioning the day in Boston 
when at the State House reviewing stand, he was 
so weary I gave him a chair. 

"The chair-man!" he exclaimed, recognizing 
me. "It seems to me that was the first and only 

(83) 



84 We'll Stick to the Finish 

time I had a chance to rest during our entire stay 
in America." Major Fabre lost one leg under 
Joffre at the Marne. 

Marshal Joffre was receiving a commission of 
prominent citizens, but I had not waited long 
when the members of the delegation departed and 
I was admitted. He greeted me with the same 
kindly smile I had learned to know in America. 
I gave "the triumph" salute, eyes up, which I 
had observed in the "Yankee Division." He 
immediately referred to his visit overseas. 

"I felt," he said, "like a real American every 
moment I was in your wonderful United States." 

I had this greeting translated in writing: "J(? 
me sens ause America que les Americain de puis 
ma visite dans voire beau pays.'' 

The spacious room in which he sat overlooked 
the river Seine and the field of Mars. At a table 
covered with green baize he made a striking figure 
in his white trousers and full military dress. On 
his breast were medals, and he wore the insignia 
of his rank in deference to the commission he had 
just met. There was a freshness in appearance 
and manner contrasting sharply with the weary 
look on his face during the "American rush," 
as he called it. His blue eyes seemed more blue 
than ever and I wondered how H. G. Wells, the 



C'est la Guerre— It is the War 85 

English novelist, in his book describing him, 
could have made the mistake of calling his eyes 
black. There might be some doubt as to the color 
of some people's eyes, but not Joffre's. 

My interpreter on this occasion was Maurice, the 
dancer, well known to the patrons of the Biltmore, 
and the theatre-going public of America. 

"When I landed from the Mayflower at Wash- 
ington," continued Joffre, "it was one of the 
greatest moments of my life. Your receptions 
made me feel that France was in the hearts of all 
your people." 

I replied: "While you were winning the heart 
of America, our people lost their hearts to you." 

"Yes," came the quick response, "it was a 
complete conquest." 

Marshal Joffre is the parent war hero of France. 
Of medium height, ruddy complexion, robust and 
strong. There is a great kindness in his calm face. 
His well-rounded head is crowned with white 
hair parted to one side. His voice is singularly 
soft. His heavy gray mustache curves upward in 
easy fashion, without military severity. 

Talking to this savior of France, I recalled the 
description of him when war broke out. He 
accepted without a qualm the terrific mission 
entrusted to him. His manner was calm. A 



86 We'll Stick to the Finish 

military scientist, precise and punctual, he laid 
out a simple plan with much thought — and fol- 
lowed it. When the French troops were being 
driven back in the first onslaught it was Joffre 
who remained confident. 

"I mean to deliver the big battle in the most 
favorable conditions at my own time, and on 
ground I have chosen. If necessary, I shall con- 
tinue to retreat. I shall bide my time. No con- 
sideration whatever will make me alter my plans." 

Even now I could see the self-possession that 
must have asserted itself in those trying hours, 
when day after day he issued bulletins for retreats 
that were shaking the world to its foundations. 
For forty years Joffre had planned the defence 
of France in event of such an invasion, and he met 
the situation unperturbed, with a profound convic- 
tion that the enemy would be stopped at the 
Marne. There his iron will asserted itself. His 
command was to stand or die — and the valiant 
French obeyed. 

On the eve of the great battle the officers gath- 
ered their men about them and amid the roar of 
the cannon they read Joffre's famous message: 

"Advance, and when you can no longer advance, 
hold at all cost what you have gained. If you 
can no longer hold, die on the spot." 



C'est la Guerre — It is the War 87 

All this flashed through my mind as we stood 
talking. 

Joffre is sixty-six years old. As a young man he 
attended the great French military school in 
which his office is now located. At eighteen he 
was made a sub-lieutenant and entered the Franco- 
Prussian war. Here he learned to know the un- 
scrupulous methods of the Germans, which he 
never forgot. 

"I served my country in 1870," he said, "and 
I have lived for this hour!" 

Indications are that in the time to come he will 
occupy an increasingly prominent place in France. 
Popular with the people, instead of losing prestige 
with age, he is gaining. At the outbreak of the 
war he was little known. He came suddenly to 
greatness. But the military men of France knew 
him. They knew of his colonial campaigns, of 
his great engineering work in the building of 
fortifications, of his zeal for protecting France 
from war that he knew was sure to come. He 
became the head of the French Army in 1911, 
placed there through the insistence of his own 
colleagues rather than through political influence. 
At the time France was facing the gravest period 
of its history; military men knew that Germany 
was preparing to strike, and they went before the 



88 We'll Stick to the Finish 

Chamber of Deputies to ask for a three years' 
conscription service. Joffre sat day after day 
under the stinging sarcasm of anti-mihtary dema- 
gogues who were revihng the army. So insulting 
and personal became the attacks that his confreres 
left the Chamber. Joffre stayed. He knew — 
what he could not state publicly — that the enemy 
was at the door. What he was asking was for 
France, not himself, and he stood firm. The 
three years' bill was passed enabling France to 
hold its first great manoeuver in the summer of 
1913. Only he and the military leaders knew 
that so large an army might be needed in one 
short year. Three years before in legislative halls, 
Joffre virtually won the battle of the Marne. 
He was the big figure in that fight, as he was at 
the Marne. He prepared France for war when 
France refused to realize it was coming. This 
proved him more than a great general, it showed 
him to be a seer and statesman. His fine balance 
of calm thinking and vigorous decision made him 
resolute. 

This, then, was the hero of France, now modestly 
telling me the simple story of how he came unwit- 
tingly to design the wide trousers of the French 
uniform. It was as a young officer serving in 
Madagascar that an accident to his trousers 



C'est la Guerre — It is the War 89 

threatened to delay his attendance at the native 
Queen's reception. Equal to the emergency 
young Joffre cut a pair of white trousers out of 
a bolt of cloth with his sabre and had a native 
woman sew them together. The threads held 
fast and a new style of baggy trousers with great 
creases on the sides was introduced. 

"They were wonderful for the way they did 
not fit," he said, and his full round face lit up 
with a smile. 

Comment was made on the rapidity with which 
oflScers' hair turns gray. 

"Is it the worry, fatigue and responsibility?" I 
asked. 

"No doubt," Joffre agreed, "and perhaps also 
the lack of certain indispensable toliet articles." 

He is in bed at nine every night and up at five. 
After each meal he takes his walking stick and 
goes for a stroll. His chief diversion is music, 
and there is no moment like that when he is 
grouped with his family around the piano in 
the evening. Although a large man, he keeps 
physically in shape at all times. One day each 
week he walks ten miles and every morning rides 
horseback. 

Among his associates Joffre is known as a silent 
man. Strict in military matters, he is popular 



90 We'll Stick to the Finish 

with people because of his freedom from partisan 
entanglements, and his name is already mentioned 
as one to succeed Poincare as President of the 
Republic. 

In his office Joffre has the art of handling a 
dozen subordinates in as many minutes, grasping 
their problems and meeting each suggestion with 
a quiet word, with no hint of worry or flurry. To 
be the head of a great army is a business in which 
etiquette is incidental. 

So paternal is he, that everybody speaks of him 
as "Papa Joffre." One hardly thinks of him as 
the battle-scarred veteran of the Marne. And 
yet when he stood erect, bidding me good-bye, 
there was an unexpected flash, like that of blue 
steel in his eyes. For a moment something of the 
real soldier, France's hero, was revealed. Readily 
one understood that power comes from large 
responsibilities. 

Born in the Pyrenees, he is one of the high 
peaks of French citizenship. His home folk say: 
"Why worry — we have our Joffre." 

There is a river town in France by the name of 
Limoges — it is where French generals and officers 
are sent when they are relieved. General Joffre 
has retired to this place as many as four generals 
at a stroke — and some are his old friends. This 



C'est la Guerre — It is the War 91 

gave meaning to the expression of a young officer, 
who remarked: 

**He has been limoged." 

"I get you — canned," I replied. 

"Canned," he repeated with a puzzled look, 
as if turning over the slang phrase. 

"No, Monsieur," he replied half chidingly, 
"that is not the word. For, Monsieur, the memory 
of their service will always live in France." 

I felt chastened in the reverence he expressed. 

"No good deed ever dies," he continued. "It 
is beyond the recognition of medals and crosses. 
It is the eternal soul of service." 

As I left Marshal Joffre I was moved by his 
unmistakable confidence in the issues of the war. 
That conviction radiates like a magnetic current 
— electrifying whoever it may touch — bringing 
dynamic hope to all. 

Then I realized.it is leaders make armies as 
well as armies make leaders. 



IX 



ANCIENT ROME IN MODERN WAR TIMES 



THE night I left for Italy, the new French 
recruits were marching to the railway station 
in Lyon, bearing in their hands green 
boughs, some singing, and others playing accor- 
dions. They seemed happier in going to the front 
than I even in the prospect of going over the Alps. 
A loneliness, peculiar to traveling alone, swept 
over me, enhanced by my inability, not knowing 
the language, to carry on a conversation with any 
one. For one of my temperament and habits, to 
go for hours without talking was torture. After 
stowing away my patent leather grip, I began 
humming to myself the song popular with Ameri- 
can troops, "It's a Long, Long Trail." 
g/There was another passenger in the compart- 
ment with me, who afterwards proved to be a 
surgeon in the French Army. He looked inquir- 
ingly at me and I scraped an acquaintance as 
usual by making motions. I tried to communicate 

(92) 



C'est la Guerre — It is the War 93 

to him my destination with a sweep of the arm, 
which had in it the full compass of my old oration 
at school: "Over the Alps Fair Italy Lies." He 
caught on and smiled. We continued the panto- 
mime until I suddenly remembered I was to change 
cars at Andre. The train was local, stopping about 
every four minutes. I looked out of the window 
and saw the name of the station in letters on a gas 
lamp, though almost lost to view in the lavish 
surroundings of advertising signs. 

The train started before I made the discovery. 
Undismayed I let down a window, threw out my 
valise, and following myself, landed at Andre. 
The grip made a "good hit," for it landed fair on 
the amplest part of the station master. What he 
said to me in French was, perhaps, better that I 
could not understand. Catching up my grip I 
caught the connecting train for Chambery. This 
old capital of Savoy is the rest billet for American 
soldiers and oflScers. Mrs. Baker of Boston was 
in charge of one of the canteens, and I had baked 
beans again that day. 

Arriving at the hotel, I was delighted to have 
the Swiss innkeeper greet me in English. Pass- 
ports proclaim nationality on the face of them. 
His card for registration looked like a checker- 
board. It was marked off in little squares. 



94 We'll Stick to the Finish 

Evidently it was his custom when a guest arrived 
to rub one of these squares with a lead pencil 
until it was completely blocked out. When he 
looked to see where I was to room, the card was 
entirely black, not a white space remained. "There 
was no room in the inn." 

"Ah," he said, as if familiar with American ways, 
"there is the cafe." 

My bed for the night was the chairs. 

It was raining, as usual, when I woke in the 
morning. In the rush for a ticket at the railway 
station, I hurriedly passed in a bill, and was 
handed a ticket for the Modane express. My 
Italian was confined to one word, "Modane." I 
knew nothing about "class," being an American. 
The porter led me to the train, where I found 
myself in a third-class coach at the extreme end. 
All the windows in the car had been broken. An 
Alpine blizzard was just beginning to rage. I had 
the car all to myself, except a number of railroad 
employees, who wore capes, and looked curiously 
at the shivering Yankee in a summer suit, who was 
roaming up and down the car flinging his arms 
violently together to keep warm. 

Crossing the frontier at Modane is merely the 
matter of passing through one end of the station to 
the other, but it is not as easy as it seems. There 



C'est la Guerre — It is the War 95 

is a picket fence and an oflficer midway. The sol- 
diers were passed on recognition of their uniforms. 
Civilians must show cause. The first degree was 
to prove that I was not taking any considerable 
money out of France. A paper printed in all 
languages was placed before me, much after the 
manner of an oculist, and I read that the limit 
of money to be carried out was five thousand 
francs. I passed. I soon convinced him that the 
regulation would not "embarrass" me. 

Once across this imaginary line, I had my first 
meal in Italy. The waitress told me there was no 
bread and that I must use potatoes instead and 
eat the spuds with the jackets on. It was here 
that I met a group of American naval officers 
attached to U. S. N. Flying Corps in Italy. They 
took me in hand and I was assigned to a handsome 
upholstered room in a wagon-lits, or sleeping car, 
labeled *'Rome." Now I could enjoy the beau- 
tiful Alpine scenery from a pkish point of view. 

On and up we went, our train finally reaching 
the snow-capped mountains. Laughing cascades 
tumbled from precipitous crags and poured their 
"white-power" into the rivers below, to be har- 
nessed to electric energy. Passing through numer- 
ous tunnels, our train suddenly swung out on a 
ledge which constituted a veritable observation 



96 We'll Stick to the Finish 

shelf, bringing into view the sweeping vista of the 
Savoy Valley — easily the most beautiful I have 
ever seen. Thrift and neatness were indicated 
in every farm and dwelling. It was a poem of 
rural beauty. Looking far down on the stately 
poplars, they stood out like so many sentinels. 

At Turin (spelled Turino in Italian), I entered 
a restaurant, where I had soup from a gigantic 
tureen, a name fitting well with the town. Here 
I saw for the first time English nurses wearing 
their peculiar lavender veils and cloaks, on their 
way to Asiago. Turin is a great manufacturing 
center. The factories had German superinten- 
dents and foremen. There was also a large German 
population here. The town furnishes an illustra- 
tion of Sonnino's plans for the Triple Alliance, 
inspired, no doubt, by commercial motives. Years 
before the King of Italy visited Emperor Josef of 
Austria, but the latter refused to return the visit. 
This snub furnished the setting for the end of 
Sonnino's dream. 

When war was imminent Italy broke the Alli- 
ance, the people unitedly declaring themselves 
ready to make whatever sacrifices would be neces- 
sary for the cause. A small group of influen- 
tial men here at Turin and Milan have had a 
determining influence in the war policy of Italy. 



GIORNALE D'lTALlA 

Parla Mr. Joe Mitchell Chappie 

Romani, italiani, compatrioti! Cosi salu- 
tando\T. sento di potervi chiamare "miei 
compatrioti," poiche abbiamo in comune 
la grande civilta lasciataci in eredita dalla 
comune madre — Roma. 

Tre milioni di italiani negli Stati Uniti 
formano parte integrale del nostro paese, 
sono sangue del nostro sangue e iusieme a 
molti altri milioni di cittadini costituisco- 
no, in quest'ora fatidica, una democrazia 
mondiale cosi vniita come lo fu I'ltalia nel 
1870 e I'America nel 1865, ad Appomatox. 
Xoi siamo orgogliosi della nostra popola- 
zione di origine italiana, i cui figl nelle scuole 
di Boston — FAtene della coltura americana — 
conquistano quasi tutti i premi. Sono italiani 
che costruiscono le nostre strade, che imialzano 
i nostri edifici, che lavorano nelle nostre 
officine, che si addestrano nei nostri accam- 
pamenti militari. E TAmerica ania quest' 
Italia generosa, che, come gli Stati Uniti, 
entro sjjontanea nella guerra che segna nclla 
storia umana una epoca cosi importante. 

L'ltalia, del resto, non jiuo a meno di 
comprendere tutta la simjjatia, I'affetto e la 
stima che si provano per lei in America, 
poiche di tali sentimenti si e fatto spesso 
interprete il nostro distinto ambasciatore, 
Thomas Nelson Page e ne ha data jirova la 
nostra Croce Rossa, diretta da queirenergi- 
co colonnello Perkins che voi tutti cono- 
scete. La Croce Rossa c I'avanguardia che 
vi indica con quale spirito vcrraimo in se- 
guito le trupjie anicricaiie e spiegluM'aiuio 
a! bel cielo azzurro d' Italia la l)an(liera stcllata 
che vi port era il messaggio di ratellanza e di 
amicizia sintetizzato nelle jiarole del Presidente 
Wilson : "non un soldo per conquiste ma miliardi 
ner la difesa del I'creditil comune a tutta 
I'umanittl." 

Dunque avanti, avanti sempre con le no- 
stre bandiere intrecciate e sia onore a Cle- 
menceau della bella Prancia, onore a Lloyd 
George della invitta Britannia, onore a Wilson 
della mia America, onore ad Orlando della 
vostra adorabile Italia. 



REPORT OF THE AUTHOR'S ADDRESS 

^Vhich apix-arcd in the leading newspaper of Runic 







GENERAL DIAZ, COMMANDER IN CHIEF OF ITALIAN ARMY 



C'est la Guerre— It is the War 97 

When the red maelstrom broke, Sonnino stood as 
a rock for the Alhes. 

I left by the night express. Time here is reck- 
oned by numbering successively the full twenty- 
four hours. The train left at 23.30. There was 
nothing on my watch which enabled me to find 
it, and I came near missing the train. The sleeping 
car ticket, even with the scarcity of paper, was as 
complete as a bill of sale in contrast to the thumb 
nail slips in use here. The back of it was covered 
with advertisements. The conductor and porter 
are one person. When I put my shoes outside of 
the berth to be shined, he called to me, saying: 

"Better take your shoes in, or you will lose 
them." 

The train swept on through Genoa and Pisa, 
affording me that magnificent marine view of the 
Mediterranean. As we neared Rome, I saw the 
camps of soldiers on the beach and passed the great 
airdrome. I learned that the German air raids had 
extended as far south as Naples and Rome. 

To see Rome in war times! Yes, I was now 
actually in it. The train skirted the ancient walls 
now sunken by time into the earth; on over the 
tawny waters of the River Tiber, and through 
the Seven Hills. As I sought accommodations 
at the hotel located on Pincon Hill, near the 



98 ^ Well Stick to the Finish 

palace of the Dowager Queen, Longfellow's poem, 
"Excelsior," came to my mind. 

Rome in war times was strangely quiet. Cabs 
were drawn by horses unfit for army service. It is 
needless to say their progress was slow. 

The first impulse in arriving in these centers is 
immediately to seek the Red Cross headquarters. 
Here Colonel Robert Perkins was in charge, as 
active as when manager of a great carpet manufac- 
tory in the United States. 

Then I set off to find Ambassador Page. I was 
accorded a real Virginia welcome. Thomas Nelson 
Page was a literary star before he was Ambassador, 
and his light shines as brightly in the firmament 
of international diplomacy. There was a reminis- 
cent look in his eyes when I told him of the war 
spirit in America. 

*'You arrived just in time," he said. "There is 
to be a mass meeting in honor of Clemenceau in 
the Argentine Theatre tonight. All the ambassa- 
dors and ministers have been invited. I cannot 
go. Would you like to occupy my box?" 

For a moment I tried to stretch myself up to 
proper diplomatic stature. I thanked him. He 
continued : 

"You represent the type of a well-fed and happy 
American anyhow." 



C'est la Guerre — It is the War 99 

He made a few notes about things I ought to see 
and when duty called him, I left for a later call. 

Of all the places I have visited, perhaps none 
has a record of more intensified activity than the 
American Red Cross in Italy. A map was handed 
me showing the peculiar bootlike topography of 
the country. It was pin-dotted all over from one 
end to the other, including the adjacent islands. 
In miniature, the map looked like a part of the 
Milky Way and the dots like so many shining 
stars. Certain it is that the light of American Red 
Cross service will shine in the firmament of Italy 
forever. 

I saw the great violinist, Albert Spaulding, in 
Rome. As an aviator in the American Flying 
Squadron, he looked as smart as when I saw him 
last in a dress suit in Symphony Hall, Boston. 

He glories not only in flights on a musical instru- 
ment, but in an airplane as well. In the Argentine 
Theatre he approached after I had spoken and 
said: "The piano wires of a plane are more familiar 
to me now than the strings of a violin." 

There is one name in Rome deserving of all 
praise — that name is Cortesi, the Associated Press 
correspondent. Years before he was sent to 
America to report the Italian lynchings in Louisi- 
ana. He remained in America for some time. 



100 We'll Stick to the Finish 

living in Boston, and married a New England 
woman. In bearing he is modest and quiet, the 
incarnation of diplomacy. Indeed, his fine mind 
has untangled many complicated skeins while in 
Rome. His news-dispatches are classics. He it 
was who opened up the very crux of the war 
situation in Rome. He took me first to see the two 
legislative bodies. 

I first visited the Italian Senate. The building 
was very old. There was an absence of elaboration 
in the place. Not a window opened to the outside. 
Light was admitted from the ceiling. It occurred 
to me that in no legislative hall I ever visited was 
there opportunity for eavesdropping. Those ap- 
pointed to the Senate are in ofiice for life. It was 
here I first saw Guglielmo Marconi, the inventor 
of the wireless. 

The discussion was in interpreting the educa- 
tional bill. Distinguished senators were pointed 
out, one of whom, the director of the Conservatory 
of Music, was preparing a concert of ail-American 
music. The selections ranged all the way from 
the classic to ragtime, the latter embracing "A Hot 
Time in the Old Town" and "Keep the Home 
Fires Burning." Among the Senators was one 
over a hundred years old. I met him later and was 
pleased to note he spoke some English. He said: 



C'est la Guerre— It is the War 101 

"Our country is much younger than America, 
but we are learning fast." 

Then drawing himself up proudly, said : 
"Age counts and I am past the century mark.'* 
From here I went to the Chamber of Deputies, 
which, in contradistinction to the Senate, was a 
lively place. The Chamber of Deputies is the real 
law-making body of Italy. People gather outside 
every day to see the members come and go. Prepa- 
rations were being made to enlarge the hall. 
Brick and mortar were already in evidence. I 
entered through a dark corridor. In a long hall 
were the busts of Cavour, Garibaldi, and some 
twelve who were identified with the unification of 
modern Italy. 

We were conducted by a uniformed messenger 
through folding doors to a winding stairway which 
led to the gallery. And the stairway was so long 
that I had the sensation of climbing Bunker Hill 
Monument. It finally emerged into the gallery 
from which we looked down upon the House and 
the proceedings. The gallery was as high over the 
main floor as the galleries in our deepest theaters. 
Unlike the Senate I had visited, the members here 
were comparatively young men. They are elected 
by the direct vote of the people. The presiding 
officer had just partaken of afternoon refresh- 



102 We'll Stick to the Finish 

ments. On the desk in front of him where the 
repast was served could be seen a number of tiny 
glasses; the only thing missing was the ketchup 
bottle. During the discussion the speaker looked 
at the spectators through opera glasses; it seemed 
as if they rested on me. 

The Cabinet members sat in front and below 
the speaker. It was a stirring scene. I could not 
understand the discussion, but those who were 
participating in it were gesticulating in the most 
violent fashion. 

After the session we dropped into the cafe which 
is the habitat of journalists and lawmakers in 
Rome. It is said that the legislation of Italy is 
shaped in what is called the pharmacy. This had 
the familiar sound of newspaper "dope." 

As we hurried along my friend, Cortesi, pointed 
out many historic places. All seemed to have lost 
interest for me, even the Capiscum, with its sacred 
bones of the monks. The only interest it had was 
that it revived Hawthorne's "Marble Faun." 
The one conspicuous thing of modern Rome is 
the tunnel running under one of the Seven Hills. 

In the evening the one hundredth anniversary 
of the original production of Rossini's "Moses" 
was celebrated. Even in war times Rome did 
not forget to honor her great composer. It was 



C'est la Guerre — It is the War 103 

attended by statesmen, prominent people and uni- 
formed army officers. For me there was a double 
bill that night. I not only attended this anni- 
versary, but also the gathering at the Argentine 
Theater. Leaving for the latter place in a cab, 
I found a great concourse of people, many waiting 
outside. I was conducted to the Ambassador's 
box. These theater boxes are in a semicircle, and 
rise, tier above tier, to the very ceiling. As I 
entered, there was great excitement on the floor. 
I learned that some one had challenged the state- 
ments of the chairman and the purpose of the 
meeting. Officers were hustling disturbers out of 
the theatre, women were being jostled and their 
hats brushed off in the confusion. It resembled 
an American political convention. The band 
began to play to restore quiet. 

The stage was filled with dignitaries and adorned 
with the flags of four of the Allied powers, Italy, 
Great Britain, France and America. My eye no 
sooner caught the Stars and Stripes than I saw it 
in distress. The star field was upside down. 
Just then an officer knocked on the door of the 
box where I was sitting. I did not understand 
what he said, but it did not matter, I understood 
his motions. He conducted me down a corridor, 
back of the scenes, and out on the stage. I was 



104 We'll Stick to the Finish 

offered a chair and crossed my legs in the usual 
way. I happened to be near my own flag. When 
I arose to adjust it, putting the field where it 
should be, the audience laughed and applauded. 

As each orator addressed the gathering, I 
watched the faces and joined when they applauded, 
just as if I understood what was being said — which 
I didn't. Senator Lorand of Belgium, who spoke 
in Italian, was a large man with bushy, pointed 
whiskers, ballasted by newspapers sticking out 
of his pockets on both sides. In sharp contrast 
to him was the trim Mignon, the representative 
of France. La Garda, an American clad in khaki, 
addressed them in his own language. He was born 
in America of Italian parents, and is a member 
of the House of Representatives in Washington. 

When the chairman motioned to me, indicating 
that I was to speak, I was amazed. But the audi- 
ence seemed friendly. 

Whenever in my speech I mentioned President 
Wilson, Americano, the audience cheered. It was 
the same when I spoke the name of Ambassador 
Page. When I referred to Lloyd George and 
pointed to the British flag, they broke loose again. 
At the name of Orlando they stormed. As I 
uttered the words "Clemenceau of La Belle 
France," the applause was long and continuous; 



C'est la Guerre — It is the War 105 

and finally when I spoke of the American troops 
coming and the "Stars and Stripes soon to be 
unfurled in the fair skies of Italia," pandemonium 
reigned. The band struck up "The Star Spangled 
Banner," the audience rising and cheering. 

Next morning, to my surprise, my speech was 
printed in full in all the papers and had been cabled 
overseas. When I saw the Ambassador, he smiled 
and said: 

"Your florid and fervid Fourth of July oratory 
lends itself beautifully to Italian translation. I 
have arranged for you to meet Nite, Minister of 
Finance. 

I wondered if he knew I needed financing just 
then! 

(Translation of the speech at the Argentine Theatre) 

Romans, Italians, Countrymen: 

The salutation has a new meaning these days, for my 
countrymen indeed you are. Italia, America and the Allies 
have become compatriots in the great fight for civilization 
— a common heritage that came in the dawn of the republic 
of ancient Rome. The messages of our own President 
Wilson have already revealed the great purpose of our 
country. 

Three million Italians in America have become an integral 
part of my country, bone and sinew of the nation, joining 
with other millions of adopted sons to help in this hour of 
destiny. As united Italy was given you in 1870, so a United 



106 We'll Stick to the Finish 

States was born in the peace at Appomattox and has become 
a union, one and inseparable. Italian children winning 
the prizes at school in Boston, Italians helping in building 
warships and camps, Italians helping in all war prepara- 
tions, and Italians in the ranks of our soldiers, has made 
the United States a close kin to united Italy. 

Through acts and deeds our distinguished Ambassador, 
Thomas Nelson Page, has made known to you the love of 
America. The activities of the American Red Cross, 
headed by Colonel Robert Perkins, indicate the spirit 
of the arriving American troops as they unfurl the Stars 
and Stripes in the blue skies of Italy. The utterances of 
our own President Wilson in his masterful leadership has 
made you understand us joining in the contest of "not 
one penny for tribute or conquest, but millions for defence" 
for the rights of free peoples — a common heritage. So 
forward with the entwined banners with the leaders of the 
people, Clemenceau in La Belle France, Lloyd George of 
Brittania, our own Wilson and Lansing of America, and 
your own Orlando of Italy supporting Diaz, Haig and 
Pershing and their valiant men to the finish. "Vive la 
Italia and the Alliance for Humanity." 



X 



ORLANDO AND ITALY'S LAWMAKERS 



THE story of Italy in the war cannot be told 
without reference to Orlando, the Premier, 
and the silent Sonnino, the Foreign Minister. 
There was a similarity to that of the LTnited States 
in the Italian position before entering the war. To 
understand it one must go back to the days of 
the Triple Alliance, when German investments 
were pouring into Italy, and factories Hun-manned 
were utilized to create commercial ties which 
would compel the extension of the treaty to em- 
brace an offensive, as well as defensive alliance. 
The people of Italy rose to the situation, and 
Sonnino was brought to the test of patriotic 
statesmanship. He realized the inevitable and 
changed "about face" — solid as a rock. 

To see Sonnino is to understand the power that 
has made Italy, after the chaotic struggles of 
centuries, a nationalized entity. Sonnino began 
his career as a journalist and founded the Giornale 

(107) 



108 We'll Stick to the Finish 

D'ltalia^ one of the most powerful papers in the 
kingdom. He talks to the people of Italy through 
his newspapers because he understands how to 
present his views in cold type. In the Chamber, his 
addresses, devoid of rhetoric or oratory, lack inter- 
est to hold the crowds; but undeterred, Sonnino 
goes on to the conclusion. Although directing 
the finances and enormous war expenditures of 
Italy, he remains a comparatively poor man, hav- 
ing but one passion — his beloved Italia. 

Sonnino's deep-set eyes, shock of gray hair and 
rather cadaverous look, indicate the parentage of a 
Jewish father and Scotch mother. His genius 
in meeting the vexatious financial problems of 
Italy has revealed the sturdy Scotch thrift of his 
maternal forbears. 

Orlando, Premier of Italy, ignited the war fever 
of his countrymen when he declared that Italy 
would never make a separate peace. The die was 
cast. Orlando, the voice of Italy, had declared it. 
Orlando is a native of Sicily, and upon him fell 
the mantle of the famous Crispi. He looks like 
an American, has iron gray hair and mustache 
and an air of gentleness that wins the individual 
as well as audience. In his office at Rome is 
an atmosphere of quiet dignity; his conversation 
is never staccato, but rather mellow in tone, and 



C'est la Guerre— It is the War 109 

his manner puts the visitor at ease. His speeches 
in the Chamber are made in closer range to the 
members than in any other legislative body. His 
addresses have the nature of conferences, and 
when he makes a statement from the bench, it is 
rounded out with the eloquent periods and beauti- 
ful phrases characteristic of the Italian language. 
Orlando had been a professor of law in the 
University of Rome, and was considered one of the 
most able writers and speakers in Italy, but it 
was little dreamed that he would ever become 
Premier. Later when I saw him at Turin, in a 
special car leaving for Abbeville, France, where 
the Premiers of England, France and Italy have 
had frequent conferences, the station was thronged 
to honor the Italian leader. He was presented 
a massive bouquet. Clad in overcoat and fully 
gloved, he was ready for the chilly trip across 
the Alps. His manner and words in addressing 
the people at the station were such as might be 
expected in a triumphal mass meeting. Leaving 
the station, he smiled as cheers and bravos followed 
him, and once within the little green car in which 
he travels, he again took up his work, going over 
papers and dispatches, with the same ease as if 
in his office at Rome. 

At the Department of Finance I met Senator 



110 We'll Stick to the Finish 

Marconi, inventor of the wireless. It had been 
raining hard, and coats and umbrellas lay upon 
the table. While we were waiting for the interview 
with Secretary Nite, Marconi, the Italian inven- 
tive genius, told me that it was at Newfoundland, 
on December 12, 1901, at 12.30 p. m., that he 
received the distinct electric signals over the 
Atlantic, transmitting the first message overseas 
without cable. This was the culmination of 
years of experiment. His idiomatic English was 
refreshing as he continued: 

*'My troubles came with the short-distance 
wireless, from two miles to two hundred and 
twenty-five. The two-mile limit was the bar- 
rier. The difficulty was overcome after much 
discouragement.'* 

Born in Bologna, the son of an Irish mother and 
an Italian landed proprietor, Marconi has become 
a world figure. Early in youth he was attracted 
to the study of electricity, and at the age of sixteen 
had begun the development of wireless telegraphy. 
When I referred to the operations of the navies 
in the war, so largely dependent on the product 
of his genius, and asked him the secret, he said: 

*'It is nothing but a sort of electrical earthquake. 
The static electricity of the ether is energized by 
the oscillating current sent up and down the aerial 



C^est la Guerre — It is the War 111 

wire, and is diffused through infinity of space. 
An earthquake is a manifestation of the material 
electricity. If a weight could be raised suifficiently 
high, the shock of its fall could be felt across the 
sea." 

"So it is a question of shocks?'* said I. 

"Everything is more or less a matter of shocks. 
You are delighted with music or literature — that 
gives you the mental shocks." 

In a soft, well-modulated voice he paid his 
tribute to Morse, Edison, and Elisha Gray, but 
seemed more inclined to talk about the war and 
to learn the news from America than about his 
scientific and inventive triumphs. 

Almost every ship that floats in the sea is now 
using wireless, which recalls that less than twenty 
years ago Mr. Marconi came to England and was 
given the resources of the post-office for experiment 
and trial. At that time it was concluded that 
wireless would be limited, like the telephone. 
The present war has proven it otherwise. 

A peculiar thing is that the wires receiving the 
waves must be perpendicular rather than horizon- 
tal, and four hundred feet is about the elevation 
required. 

"My dream was to have the wireless so you 
could call a friend, not knowing where he was, 



112 Well Stick to the Finish 

sending forth the message, 'Where are you?' He 
might reply, 'I am in a coal mine,' 'in the Andes,* 
or 'on the ocean,' but no matter, he is near at hand, 
thus hoping that through the ether we might bring 
the world closer together." 

I introduced Mr. Marconi to a number of navy 
lads standing near the Embassy, who looked on 
him as a wizard, and insisted they felt an electric 
thrill when they shook hands. The compliment 
was superb when they turned and said: "There 
is the wizard that has saved many a good ship." 
This tribute coming from the lips of yeomen and 
seamen was as eloquent as the studied praise of 
the admiral. 

As I sat looking at him I thought what great 
things had come from his brain. All the infinitude 
of space was now vibrating with limitless mes- 
sages, making the heavens speak as the ripples of 
sound radiate around the earth, defying all bound- 
aries or barriers. 

The Minister of Finance, Nite, a rather stout 
man with pompadour hair and mustache, was a 
member of the Italian Commission to America. 
It was evident from the reception he accorded me 
that he was a friend of Americans. 

"Every moment," he said, "of my visit to America 
meant much to me. It revealed that the mental 




Copyright by Uriderwood & L'lirlenroo/I 

OHLAXDO. PRHMlKli OF ITAL\ 



.flllll 



it. 




Copyright by U luterwoud cfc Uiidvnvuud 

GUGLIELMO MARCONI, SENATOR AND INVENTOR 



Cest la Guerre— It is the War 113 

attitude of the world is much the same, and that 
physical problems vary only in degree. Since the 
war, in common with all Italians, America does 
not to me seem three thousand miles away." 

In speaking of my trip, he said: "You must 
have observed that Italians feel a close kin to your 
country. Everyone who has been in America 
seems to count on his sojourn there as the epic of 
his life. Time is dated before and after he has been 
in America." 

"Will many Italians return to America after 
the war?" I asked. 

"Doubtless there will be many who will want 
to come, but can we spare them? — that is the 
question." 

While in the United States Nite met the 
President and all oflScials, and insisted that Presi- 
dent Wilson's messages were quite as familiar to 
Italians as those of their own public men. 

"Long ago I developed a high regard for your 
distinguished Secretary of the Treasury, William 
G. McAdoo, who has made rapid strides in clarify- 
ing the mysteries of finance as an everyday propo- 
sition to the people; or, in other words, the Treas- 
ury selling bonds direct to the people rather than 
through the mystic shadows of brokers." 

An important conference terminated an inter- 



114 We'll Stick to the Finish 

view which promised much. Nile is pronounced 
one of the coming men of Italy. 

As I came out I saw the usual throng before the 
office of Orlando — a peculiar Italian custom of 
honor to their leaders. The Premier acknowledged 
the greeting of the populace and seemed in excellent 
spirits — with some degree of appropriateness, for 
he had just been selected by the Allies to take 
charge of the affairs pertaining to after-the-war 
conditions — a real compliment to Italy and her 
lawmakers. 



XI 



SIEGED VENICE BY NIGHT AND DAY 



FALLING bombs announced the war carnival 
in Venice. The doves of St. Marco had 
flown. In the darkness, the silver sheen 
of the canals alone gave the aviators location, 
and, strangely enough, the canals received most 
of the bombs— thus saving the historic spires of 
the city. 

No other place in Europe is more difiicult to 
visit in war time than Venice. It is easier to make 
a tour of the first-line trenches than to pass the 
sentinel of the Minister of Marine, for he is en- 
trusted with the sublime task of saving the 
"Mistress of the Adriatic." 

A letter to the Commando Supremo, General 
Diaz, was my credential to unlock the gates inside 
the zone of army operations, but this was not 
sufiicient. It needed a pass from the Minister of 
Marine. 

On the train from Rome, the vision of Venice 

(115) 



116 We'll Stick to the Finish 

with its Doges' palaces, St. Mark's and the 
Grand Canal haunted me. How would it look as 
compared with the glory in which I had seen it? 

The train was crowded with oflBcers in the first- 
class and soldiers in the third-class compartments. 
Some were grim and some were gay — a marked 
contrast to the days of Cook's tourists. Com- 
plaints of service or poor meals on the diner, or 
impatience at delayed trains were no longer heard. 
The solid troop trains to and from the front had 
the right of way. 

At Bologna I had a breakfast in keeping with its 
name. Sweeping over the plains of Venetia to 
Padua, and then on to the Maestro, evidences of 
the war accumulated mile by mile. When the 
lagoons were sighted in the soft twilight, the train 
rattled over the long viaduct much as over the 
sea at Key West. In the distance was Venice 
now fading into the gloom of another night. At 
the station in Venetia, guards were stern and un- 
bending. They required passport and identifica- 
tion. Only the week before real celebrities and 
prominent writers had been turned back because 
of some technicality in their credentials. They 
take no chances on strangers. Officers 'phone and 
wire ahead just who is expected and when. Venice 
is closed tight against spies. Through the gate 



Cest la Guerre— It is the War 117 

were the outlines of a gondola, but there was 
nothing to suggest the gay life of her former days. 
Looking about to get my bearings, I was accosted 
by an officer, who looked me over with suspicion, 
and finally put his hand on my arm, as if making 
an arrest. When I tried to explain in my jumble 
of Italian and English, he said: "American Con- 
sul," and indicated I was to follow him. My 
passport. No. 10891, was again peppered with a 
purple stamp, but even then he kept saying 
"American Consul." Had something gone wrong 
with my papers, I wondered, and was I to be 
hailed before the authorities to spend the night in 
custody? On the war front nothing is surprising. 
I caught step with him in military fashion and 
accompanied him. When about to step into what 
looked like the police patrol gondola, I was in- 
formed by a keen-eyed young American in khaki — 
and the only American I had seen since leaving 
Rome, who evidently had overheard the Italian 
officer's conversation— that the American Consul 
expected me on an earlier train, but, being obliged 
to leave, detailed these officers to provide a safe 
escort to his home. 

It is safe to presume I froze to my escort. We 
glided along the Grand Canal and under the his- 
toric Rialto. Here and there demolished buildings 



118 We'll Stick to the Finish 

stood out like spectres in the darkness. Not even 
the night could hide the ravages of the air raids. 

This was Venice, yes, the scene of countless 
carnivals and fetes, but now ghostly and defiant, 
awaiting, maybe, another avalanche of death with 
the new moon! As we became accustomed to the 
murky shadows, following the weird wake of light 
along the Canal, Venice in the dark became almost 
more fascinating than Venice in the light. 

Few people were on the street or in the callas 
after nightfall, and what few there were hugged the 
ancient walls. The barred windows of the closed 
shops indicated that most of the "Merchants of 
Venice" had gone. A mist swept in from the sea, 
as we turned a sharp corner and arrived at the 
home of the American Consul, Mr. Harvey Carroll. 
Like most of the residents of Venice, he lives on 
the second floor, to escape the dampness. Through 
the darkness of what appeared to be a subterranean 
entrance, I found the home haven of the American 
Consul and his charming wife. They radiated a 
Southern welcome. Without gas to cook with, but 
with the pluck of an American housewife, Mrs. 
Carroll had prepared the evening meal by fanning 
the embers of charcoal on a stone table fireplace. 
Even a cup of hot water was a luxury in the 
besieged city. 



C'est la Guerre — It is the War 119 

Of the one hundred and forty thousand people 
who once called Venice home, only a few thousand 
are left. The gondolas which used to glide over 
the placid surfaces of the canal, gay with laughter 
and music, were no more. What few remained 
were on official business. This, together with the 
population gone, made Venice almost a tomb. The 
puffing motor boats made a somewhat lively scene 
as they passed here and there conveying supplies. 

The day before the people observed one of the 
traditional holidays of the Republic, but instead 
of the strumming guitars and the lilting songs, the 
merrymaking was confined to little groups who 
showered blossoms on the waters of the Adriatic. 
The weird cry of a gondolier as he turned the 
corner, as in the old days, was heard no more. 
In place of the merry life, which was once the 
charm of Venice, had come the sordid spectre 
of war. Barges laden with barrels, casks and bales 
now occupy the centre of the picture. A strange 
Venice to those who knew it in the old days, but 
a Venice becoming better loved because of its 
heroic resistance and willing sacrifices. 

All day long there was the intermittent roar 
of the distant guns. The people who have remained 
are so pitifully poor that they could not leave if 
they wished to. Under the curtain of the night, 



120 We'll Stick to the Finish 

Paris and London present no such gloomy appear- 
ance. Even the ghstening shadows of the clouds on 
the Grand Canal brought only fear. Night attacks 
have been more frequent here than in any other 
city. Somehow Ruskin's "Stones of Venice" came 
to mind as I stumbled over the slippery walks 
during a rainy night tour of the city. Every light 
was out. Even the flash of a match was prohib- 
ited. A dull moon presaged a raid that night, 
but none came. 

Sand bags protecting buildings, statues, and 
historic columns were everywhere. They could 
even be found on the lower floor of the homes to 
provide protection from the overhead destruction. 
No less than three hundred bombs had been 
counted in a single night; but Venice seemed to 
bear a charmed life, comparatively little damage 
being done. In spite of the hellish Hun, most of 
the historic shrines still stand. 

In one of the refugee cellars of a school, a scene 
occurred never to be forgotten. A flashlight photo- 
graph, which has had a world-wide appeal, was 
made. The Sister who had charge of the school 
had called the little children to her side in an 
effort to gather them as a hen gathers her chickens 
under her wings. Boom! boom! boom! roared the 
bombs outside. The little children crouched, with 



C'est la Guerre — It is the War 121 

wide open and startled eyes, yet they were brave. 
They seemed to feel they were quite safe so long 
as the protecting spirit of the Sister was over and 
around them. I met the Sister who related to me 
the story of that night. 

An Italian officer said to me in careful and delib- 
erate phrase: "It was the American Red Cross 
which saved our people from starvation, for little 
food has come into the city during the past 
year." 

Not even the people of Belgium have more 
generously expressed their gratitude for relief 
given than the people in war-stricken Venice. 
The condition of the poor could not have been 
more pitiable than when the Red Cross came as 
an Angel of Mercy. 

Bright and early next morning I followed the 
fast-walking and alert American Consul, Harvey 
Carroll, and watched him as he superintended 
the beginning of the day's activities at the Maga- 
zine where the people came to obtain food and 
supplies. Rice and cornmeal were provided, and 
many of the products on the shelves had familiar 
labels. The Magazine was in charge of bright 
Venetian girls, some of distinguished lineage, who 
stayed steadily by their task, in contradistinction 
to the criminal and lower classes, who fled at the 



122 We'll Stick to the Finish 

first sight of danger. It is easy to detect the 
streak of yellow in individuals amid the red flame 
of war. 

Every train arriving and leaving the city was 
met by a delegation from the Consul, and each 
profughi, or refugee, was provided with enough 
food to take him to his destination. The refugees 
are scattered all over Italy. The American Red 
Cross unites with the Italian Red Cross and the 
Government in caring for these, and provides 
an opportunity for them to earn a livelihood in 
making war supplies. 

After a walk which encompassed nearly every 
street in Venice, I paused long enough to catch my 
breath and make a notation. 

Mr. Carroll was born in Texas and is a graduate 
of an European university. His hearty and good- 
natured manner has made him a beloved figure in 
Venice. He has demonstrated that the wide 
range of work of both Consul and Red Cross 
representative can be efficiently combined. On 
the streets the people met him with a smile and 
doffed their hats in a deference worthy a Doge. 
Just then a group of boys approached him, their 
toes sticking through their shoes. Looking up at 
him, they said in broken English: 

"Shoes go bad — Consul go good.*' 



Cest la Guerre — It is the War 123 

"Sif si,'' replied the Consul, with a benevolent 
smile. 

Even the boys looked on him as the magic 
cobbler. 

Twenty-three separate activities of the Red 
Cross are located in this district, and every one is 
doing a needed and appreciated work. We entered 
a hospital which had been bombed, picking our 
way through the shattered glass in the courtyard. 
A group of people had gathered for coffee. Over 
eleven hundred children are cared for and two 
thousand meals served each day. In the faces of 
those outside who were given but one meal a day, 
radiated a gratitude that was good to see. In the 
hearts of the people of Italy, the ministrations of 
the Red Cross will live forever. 

Periods of prosperity and glory may yet come 
to Italy, but the great-hearted and open-handed 
generosity of America, responding as it did to the 
cry for food, will be cherished as long as Venice, 
one of the oldest republics, endures, and constitute 
forever bonds of affection for the younger Republic 
over the seas. 

At the Rialto, which is the ferry landing, old 
men and women were bearing huge milk cans; 
this, with the garden truck which the others 
brought in, was a faded picture of the markets in 



124 We'll Stick to the Finish 

the old days. In the harbor, and far out on the 
Adriatic, could be detected the tiny red sails dis- 
tinctive of the fishing craft. These were bringing 
in sea food to supplement the loaves of the Ked 
Cross. 

On one of my rambles in Venice I lost my way, 
trying a short cut through a piazzetta that curved 
about like the streets of Boston. Most of the 
persons met were women. Was I to confess that 
I was lost.f* The time was approaching for my 
boat to leave and I could no longer parley with 
vanity. Lifting my hat as gallantly as I could, I 
accosted a little girl who was bearing a bundle 
and whom I addressed as "Signorita," believing 
I was safe in my Italian that far at least, but I 
found I could go no farther, so began making 
motions. Then shouted louder to try and make 
my meaning clear. She was not deaf, but it did 
not help matters, not even when I pointed my 
finger in the direction of '^somewhere." There was 
a puzzled look on her face as I repeated, 'T want to 
go to—" 

"Say *heir and let it go at that," shouted a voice 
behind me. 

It was an American who spoke and in the next 
breath he said "from Indiana." I tried to respond 
in Italian. While not in keeping with the Red 



C'est la Guerre — It is the War 126 

Cross ritual, his greeting was welcome. Passing 
the Bridge of Sighs in company with him, we 
chanced upon a charmed cluster of trees in an old 
courtyard. The birds were singing their carols 
as if in defiance to the Austrian bombs. A crowd 
of people had gathered just to see and hear the 
birds in the trees. 

At the Hotel Man tin, a name prominent in the 
history of Venice, a gondola bus was ready to take 
passengers to the railway station. Descending 
the steps to the boat, I felt the carpet of moss under 
foot, gathered by the tides of the centuries. At 
low ebb the green is a bright emerald hue, forming 
a fresh coloring in the grayness of the scene. My 
eyes caught glimpses of old rusty hinges and crude 
locks on the doors, telling of the days when over 
these thresholds teemed commerce from the seven 
seas. The ancient palaces alone radiated the story 
of the once glorious days of the "Mistress of the 
Adriatic." 

Germans have cast envious eyes on Venice, 
something like an ancient heritage to be regained. 
Venitia was once occupied, pillaged and sacked by 
Attila, king of the Huns. The descendants of Attila 
are now battling at the Piave. Venice was built 
by the survivors of the Hun invasion on a marshy 
island surrounded by lagoons, to resist invasion. 



126 We'll Stick to the Finish 

It was sunrise when I came away. Yonder in 
the harbor were the Italian destroyers and new 
electric sea tanks preparing for another chase of 
the Austrian fleet. My boat sailed away. Venice 
faded on the skyline. 

During the sail we passed numerous craft, 
carmen-hued, their sails waving like emblems of 
victory. Sailors were singing hopeful songs, 
and when we neared the landing at St. GuUien, 
our red Fiat motor car was ready for the dash to 
Padua. 



XII 
ALONG THE ITALIAN FRONT 



THE proverbial sunny skies of Italy were 
obscured by a drizzling rain as I swept 
along by the canal in the red motor car 
which Major Fabri of the Red Cross had provided. 
The air was cold and nipping. The lack of horses 
in Italy was in evidence all along the canal, for 
men were pulling the barges laden with war sup- 
plies. Arriving at Padua, the seat of the ancient 
Padua University, and the center of Venetian 
culture, we came to the headquarters of the 
Italian Army. 

It was here I met Mr. Charles Thompson of the 
Associated Press. He is a good type of the cru- 
sader. His descriptions of the war in Italy are 
notable contributions. He has one son in the 
Army and another in the Navy. Another corre- 
spondent who is sending out reports widely read 
in America, and who knows his Italy through and 
through, is Paul Morrow. 

(127) 



128 We'll Stick to the Finish 

These men are on the spot and are keen observers 
of events. 

At Ristor's restaurant I Hstened to an illum- 
inating narration by these men of the debacle at 
Caporetto, where the blood and sacrifice of two 
years was wiped out in a few hours. These men 
were thoroughly informed as to every detail 
involved in the reverse. Though the worst blow 
in the history of the country, yet it had by some 
enchantment United the whole Italian people. 
They prophesied victory yet to come. 

At the luncheon were served delicacies like 
calves' brains, pigs' feet, and broiled vertebrae 
(I am not strong on stewed spinal cord, but I 
know what it is). In the wall of the dining room 
was a destination dent made by one of Napoleon's 
guns. 

Then we started on our way to Abano, where 
the headquarters of the Commando Supremo 
are located. My sole companion was a captain 
delegated by headquarters. As we passed through 
the plains, on either side of the road were myriad 
stumps of mulberry trees, out of which the new 
shoots were springing. It is here that fagot 
gatherers come every year to cut off the new 
growth, using the shoots for fuel. Even these 
tiny twigs are of priceless value in a land where 




MTE. ITALIAN MIXISTKH Ol' ll.XANCK 




CONVEYING SUPPLIES IN BESIEGED VENICE 




A LUNCHEON IN PARIS GIVEN TO AMBASSADOR SHARPE 



C*est la Guerre — It is the War 129 

wood is almost reverenced. In the distance loomed 
the great mountains. 

Our "red devil" motor car was driven with 
Detroit speed over roads, on either side of which 
were fields dotted with reserve line trenches, 
barbed -wire, and machine-gun emplacements. 
Now and then we edged past long lines of troops 
coming from and going to the front. Sentinel 
after sentinel stopped us to see that magic paper. 

As we came to the headquarters of General 
Diaz we found ourselves in front of an old hotel, 
which, before the war, was a sulphur spring 
resort. I can smell the water yet. His quarters 
were on the second floor. As I entered. General 
Diaz, sitting at a flat-topped desk, arose. The 
Captain who acted as my escort snapped his heels 
and saluted, at the same time presenting me. 
The Commander immediately extended his hand 
in the warmest sort of greeting. His cordiality 
and easy manner swept away every vestige of 
formality. On his desk every article was arranged 
with methodical precision. General Diaz looked 
the Commando Supremo. He wore the green 
khaki of the Italian Army, and on his sleeve were 
a flock of stars in irregular shape 

A direct descendant of the lieutenant of Colum- 
bus who made the voyage of discovery with him, 



130 We'll Stick to the Finish 

General Diaz has valorous blood in his veins. 
Under fifty he is in his very prime. His rise to 
the head of the army has been spectacular. It 
was the promotion of merit. The devotion of 
his soldiers to him is Garibaldic. He almost 
knows them by name. Few commanders mix so 
easily and gracefully with their men. It is for this 
reason they love him. 

Not alone for his personal qualities, but for his 
supreme genius as a tactician, does he command 
them. The genesis of success shown by recent 
operations was in his brain. 

As I looked upon him I saw a man of medium 
stature with black hair pushed back pompadour. 
The thick mass was slightly streaked with gray. 
His face was bronzed by exposure and markedly 
wrinkled for so young a man, but it was handsome. 
His dark eyes, peculiarly piercing, glistened with 
good humor. In repose his features are far from 
stern, as is shown in current photographs. When 
his lips parted he looked more like an artist than 
a soldier. He comes from Naples, and could 
pass for a Grand Opera star. His was a delightful 
blend of strength and tenderness. And the moment 
he spoke — his voice was as sweet and mellow as a 
silver bell — I was won completely to him. 

I extended greetings, to which he replied: 



C*est la Guerre — It is the War ISl 

"I hope your visit will bring Italy closer to you. 
I shall welcome the day when I see American 
troops in Italy." 

"America appreciates the great number of your 
countrymen who come to its shores," I began rather 
boldly. 

'*And we appreciate them more when they come 
back," he added quickly. "We hope the Ameri- 
cans will be as much better for being in Italy, as 
Italians are for having been in America." 

When I spoke of the refugee children, his 
liquid eyes softened, and rising and going to a 
table, he took up a book containing pictures, 
showing children in school rooms, and how Italy 
is caring for the refugees. He presented the book 
to me, saying: 

"Doesn't that look like America?" 

All our conversation was carried on through an 
interpreter. The General frequently supplemented 
question and answer by his own comments, 
and we just kept on talking with our hands — for- 
getting the interpreter. When I suggested that he 
should come to America, he said: "Yes, after the 
war. Everything comes after the war." 

As I timidly ventured to inquire, "How are 
things going at the front?" he raised his finger 
prophetically and said: 



132 We'll Stick to the Finish 

''Sperta et lerdir ("Wait and see!") 

When I asked him for his photograph, he sent 
immediately for it. In autographing it, he dashed 
it off so quickly and well that his every movement 
indicated a man of literary cultivation. After 
speaking of America and Italy, over his name he 
wrote: *'Unione fedeli, fede vuna, energie agione.'* 
("Union with heart and soul, and one for energy 
and action") April 26, 1918." 

As I started to go away he arose, extended his 
hand and surprised me by saying in English, 
"Thank you very much." Not to be outdone in 
courtesy, I replied, *'Grazie" ("Thank you"). 

Then we returned to Padua where we found 
Major Fabri, a native American, now in the 
service of the American Red Cross, and whose 
father was once partner in the J. Pierpont Morgan 
firm. From Padua we sent our luggage on to 
Verona, to make room in the automobile in which 
we were to travel, for the lira (money) which 
the Major was to distribute to the mayors and 
padres in every small community, for relief among 
the refugees. Here we were joined by a father 
and son. The father was a captain and the son 
a lieutenant in the Italian Army. The soldier- 
family had been separated by the exigencies of 
service in different fields. Long shall I carry in 



C^est la Guerre — It is the War 133 

my heart the picture of that father and son in the 
joy of their reunion. During the entire trip their 
exchange of experiences was accompanied by the 
most fervent affection for each other. 

It was biting cold and the Lieutenant handed 
me an overcoat. It had service stars on the 
collar and sleeve. When the Lieutenant saw the 
soldiers along the way saluting me, he suggested 
that it would be better to take the stars off, which 
was done. Yet for a while I passed as an Italian 
army officer. 

Major Fabri had provided rations for the 
journey. Forward again flashed the red "Fiat." 
The chauffeur was a dare-devil. We swept past 
village after village, their campaniles standing 
out like passing milestones. On the road military 
activities were more and more in evidence. At 
one place we encountered a herd of cows — and 
they acted as cows always do. After our delay we 
were on again, and did not pause until we reached 
Thiene, where the British headquarters are located. 

We were in the plateau of the Asiago. In the 
villages, which dotted the landscape, not a civilian 
remained. Every piece of furniture in the houses 
was gone. Here where domestic tranquility once 
reigned, and around doorsteps where happy chil- 
dren played, arose only gaunt and irregular walls. 



134 We'll Stick to the Finish 

mutely protesting the ruthless scourge which 
had swept over it. 

Behind and above this wide stretch of crumb- 
ling desolation, rose the Julian Alps, their white 
peaks crowned with snow, their ravines robed 
in purple, and their foothills bathed in a russet 
glow. They stood there in eloquent silence de- 
claring that a people whose motives were as pure 
as the sifted snows, whose loyalty was as glorious 
as the blue garments they wore, and whose sacrifice 
was redder than their deepest tones, would some 
day find eternal foundations, and be lifted high in 
the light of heaven. 

Wliat a setting for the operations of the British 
and French, and now the American armies, who 
have come to stand side by side with the Italian 
in stemming the red-death stalking unashamed 
through the passes! 

The rest of the way to the mountains lay along 
roads heavily camouflaged. Toward the enemy 
a green foliage matting stretched mile after mile, 
which, while not preventing the enemy from 
knowing the road's location, served to obscure the 
observation of troops passing to and fro, and 
eliminated sniping. 

Reaching the Tyrolean Alps, we had a view 
of the little narrow gauge road from a different 



C'est la Guerre — It is the War 135 

angle than that of the tourist. In our motor car 
we were actually among the scenes which the 
railroad only commands at a distance. More 
villages were encountered, the dwellings in each 
fearfully demolished. When I remarked upon 
the desolation, my Lieutenant companion said: 

"Wait until you get to my town." 

And when we finally reached it, what terrible 
destruction had been wrought. Not a building 
escaped. The Austrians were good gunners, having 
picked out the houses and potted them, one by 
one. Only a few straggling soldiers furnished any 
semblance of life. 

Some incidents in any journey stand out with 
greater vividness than others. For me now is 
to describe in broken words the climacteric 
experience of my life. 

No array of sentences can picture the journey 
from the plans of Piave to Mount Grappa. The 
distance is no less than a hundred miles, and it 
was made in a single day. 

We stopped at the village of Piovene, and my 
Lieutenant companion said, "Are you game?" 
Not knowing all it meant, I assented. I had not 
come over seas and continents to count hazards. 

I soon learned that he referred to the Telliferico, a 
little aerial railroad which runs up six thousand 



136 We'll Stick to the Finish 

feet to the highest peak. The car or wire basket 
which furnishes accommodation for two persons 
is attached to an overhead cable — one car goes up, 
and the other comes down, both gravity and 
power being used. In the car one must He down. 
It is in these Httle baskets the guns and munitions 
are carried up, and the wounded are brought down. 

For fully thirty minutes we lay in the car going 
up the Telliferico six thousand feet. No sounds, 
save the clicking ratchet of the cable wheels over- 
head, and our voices, were heard, and our voices 
seldom disturbed the silence, for with peak after 
peak passing in view, deep caverns yawning, and 
stretching Alpine vistas as far as the eye could 
reach, it was no time for words. We were holding 
our breath. Far below and underneath curved in 
and out between the ranges the Astico River, its 
bluest of blue waters, flecked by white foam, 
showing the tumult of its soul. 

Reaching the top, we left the Telliferico and 
landed knee-deep in mud. 

On the trails above mules were footing their way 
slowly upwards, bearing their precious burden 
of supplies. Along the trail wherever the curve 
permitted, gun emplacements had been cut in the 
solid mountains. 

At the barracks we were received by the oflScer 



Cest la Guerre — It is the War 137 

in charge who invited us in for coffee. It is the 
custom farther up to stop at all the barracks and 
take coffee with the officers. 

And from here up these barracks multiply fast. 
By the time I had finally reached the top I was 
full up, so it seemed, of coffee. I never drank 
so much coffee before and I never expect to 
again. But I was grateful that Nature provided 
me liberally with the capacity of being sociable. 

From Telliferico station to the trenches on 
Mount Verena is one thousand feet, and the only 
way to reach the latter is up a road which winds 
round and round like the stair treads in the Wash- 
ington monument. Every step of the way must 
be on foot, and with my normal weight and the 
additional burden of coffee, I am not surprised 
that my Lieutenant companion frequently asked: 

"Do you think you can make it?" or "How's 
your heart?" 

I replied, "My heart is all right, but my stomach 
is in the way." 

Every step now was through snow and slush and 
mud. My feet were soaked, my clothing smeared, 
and my gloves looked as if I had been in a sewer 
main. Every now and then we stopped for a 
breathing spell. At one of these was a scene that 
haunts me even now. 



138 We'll Stick to the Finish 

There on a comparatively flat ledge were num- 
berless white crosses. It was a cemetery of the 
soldier-dead. Here those who had fallen by their 
guns in the first great push, had been laid to rest, 
close up to heaven's blue walls where they died, 
and from which their spirits easily mounted to the 
peace plains of the Eternal City. There slept their 
sacred dust, under the white blanket of the snow, 
with not so much as a large-eyed daisy to look 
down tearfully upon them. Yet they climbed 
the altar stairs to glory, and their memory will 
remain with the enduring Alps. 

At another stop my companion pointed to a 
distant peak, saying, "I spent six months in the 
little barracks at that point in an observation 
post, and during that time never once left it." 

It was in that post, during the early stages of the 
war, that an Italian commander, Austrian born, 
was captured by the enemy and shot. 

On we climbed. It would rain, then sleet, then 
snow, the ascent becoming more and more diffi- 
cult. But the stops were many, and here as at 
the other barracks the officer took us in, and gave 
us more coffee. 

Finally we reached the headquarters of the 
Commander. He proved to be Major Effisio 
Toulu, who wore a monocle. The barracks were 



C'est la Guerre — It is the War 139 

built into the side of the mountain, and contained 
quite a few rooms, many of them papered with 
actresses' pictures and cartoons. They were all 
lighted by electricity and had telephones. Every 
splinter of that lumber and the materials which 
entered into the construction of the building 
were carried up that last one thousand feet by 
mules. 

The Major was a jovial fellow! Off-hand he 
said at once: 

"We're keeping them busy up here." When 
asked if there was much shooting, he said: 

"We shoot so many shells every day, just to let 
them know we are here." 

When we inquired about the time of shooting 
he said: "The exercises begin soon." 

"Can I stay?" I hesitatingly inquired. "Sure 
Mike," he cried, and laughed hilariously. Evi- 
dently it was the only bit of the American tongue 
he had picked up. I was willing to change my 
name to see the show. 

It was a dramatic moment when, lower down, I 
had looked through an opening in the peaks and 
saw for the first time the Austrian frontier. But 
the upshot of all my experiences was now to come. 

He conducted us to a narrow walk on the side of 
a rugged peak. 



140 



We'll Stick to the Finish 



"Bend low," he cautioned, "If they see, they 
will pepper." So skulking like Indians, we crept 
along until we entered a long winding tunnel. 
There were short lateral tunnels leading out of 
the main one, where stood concealed mortars and 
howitzers with their noses pointed in the air. 

I said to the Major, "Is there any danger here?" 

"Not unless they blow the top of the mountain 
off," he sniffed. 

We entered another barracks and here we had 
more coffee. Then on through a tunnel to a terrace, 
which led to the tip-top peak, we climbed a ladder, 
perhaps a hundred feet. Another winding tunnel, 
and through a tiny peek hole in the solid rock, 
was an Austrian camp, not over fifty yards away, 
the smoke of the fire curling leisurely upward, 
to dissipate in the thin air, or be lost amid the 
snows. The enemy was there. 

The Major said enthusiastically: 

"Now we'll see the fireworks." Ordering my 
Lieutenant companion to fire, the latter phoned 
to his own battery stationed below. 

In a twinkling of an eye, a ribbon of fire shot 
past the peek hole. Smoke puffed on the opposite 
peak, and through the glasses camp utensils could 
be seen flying into the air. We saw all this before 
we heard the report. 



C'est la Guerre— It is the War 141 

"It's a hit/' the Major shouted. Then turning 
to the Lieutenant he praised him on the work of 

his battery. 

I had seen more than brain could comprehend. 
Here at the very peak of the Alps, the eye of 
Italy is on Austria. 

Descending the ladder, we entered once more 
the barracks, where camp dogs added a little 
domesticity to the soHtary loneliness. 

Passing down one of the tunnels, I heard a 
shout I did not know the language, but I recog- 
nized the tone, and "ducked," lying flat down, 
close to the eternal walls. An Austrian "skodda" 
was trying to become sociable. 

Now, for the descent of the Telliferico! I lay 
face up. The incline was so steep the car was 
almost upright— at such an angle that the whole 
scene spread out before me. The great peaks under- 
neath looked like hillocks. Great mountam val- 
leys from which the snow has never departed since 
the morning stars sang together at creation, were 
bathed in almost every blue and purple tone. 
Peaks swept on until in the distance they dis- 
solved in the gray mist, as dimunitive and pointed 
as a collection of army tents. 

When we had descended and reached the point 
where the Lieutenant's battery was located, the 



142 We'll Stick to the Finish 

very same which had so accurately saluted the 
enemy, I noticed a tally board where a record of 
every shot, and results as far as they are known, 
is kept day by day. 

Turning to the barracks for dinner, we were just 
finishing our soup, when a shell smashed over the 
battery. The Austrians had the range now. 
The Lieutenant coolly said : 
"Guess we will have to move again." 
The casualties numbered four mules which were 
grazing about in the little space. 

Here I was sent to bed, until my clothing and 
shoes were dry enough to be wearable. Getting 
out of bed, we started on the one-hundred-mile 
ride to Verona, then through Vincenza. It was 
the wildest ride I ever experienced. The rain came 
pouring down. We were soon soaked to the skin. 
In the darkness, for we had no headlights, we 
hardly knew where we were going. Not until we 
arrived at Verona at one a.m., did I have a feeling 
of safety. 

In the darkness we toured within the historic 
walls of the city for nearly an hour trying to locate 
the leading hotel, and when we finally did, and 
sought for admission, the porter shook his head, 
until he learned that we were the two guests whose 
luggage had preceded us. Rooms were provided, 



C'est la Guerre — It is the War 143 

but nothing else. Not a crumb to eat, not even a 
hot swallow to warm us. Major Fabri said: 

*'We're due for pneumonia tomorrow." But 
the porter hung out our wearing apparel under 
the gabled roof to dry, and Sunday morning we 
woke up to find our clothes cleaned, brushed and 
pressed, and sauntered forth for all the world 
feeling like *'two gentlemen of Verona.'* 



XIII 



WITH THE ROLLING CANTEEN IN ITALY 



IT was on the plateau of the Asiago, where the 
British troops were stationed, that I had my 
first glimpse of the American Rolling Canteen. 
Leaving Vincenza in the early morning, our way 
was through many a village levelled by Austrian 
guns. In a cloud of dust sent up by the Canteen, 
we rode on through the day, until in the evening 
we came to more bombarded towns, and drew up 
under the ruins of a campanile — nearly every 
town having one — the architecture reflecting 
Venetian influence of earlier days. 

Under the crumbled walls of a house the Red 
Cross kitchen was located. It somewhat resem- 
bles a lunch wagon, and was no sooner in place 
than soldiers were flocking about it like bees 
around honey. In the early evening, with cool 
gray mists curling about, it was a welcome heat 
unit. The village was deserted, everything was 
damp and dismal, not another fire for miles 

(144) 




ANDKKdTROEX, FRAXCK'S KORKM.Kl Ml \|,„»\ 
MA\rFAfT(F{|-;i{ 

At l.'fl, in conviTsalion witi. (m-,,,-,;.! J'.T.hing aii.l 
a Prcnth officer 



11 







;iivjr;.> '\v 













'?< 



B 



•*V3 



LE MARECHAL JOFFRE 



C'est la Guerre — It is the War 145 

around. Is it any wonder that men whether 
eating or drinking, warming their hands, or sip- 
ping the steaming soup, were filled with good 
cheer? 

Most soldiers are, seemingly, always hungry, 
and anything differing from the regular army 
rations appeals to them. The Rolling Canteen 
supplies soup, coffee, and cigarettes — strange com- 
bination — but war has shown these odd associates 
to be the epicurean delight of soldiers. Especially 
do they relish a steaming cup of coffee which they 
will drink every two or three hours. 

To see a group around one of these kitchens was 
to be reminded of a throng of chattering Italians 
often seen in railroad construction camps in the 
United States. There was little difference in the 
uniform of these men, except that some had 
jaunty caps, while others wore Alpine hats adorned 
with a feather. Coffee always started the flow 
of jocularity, and any attention by the workers 
brought from the soldiers an enthusiastic ''Grazie." 
(Thank you.) 

One big fellow, a giant among his comrades, 
had the distinction of having been in America, and 
was the cynosure of all as he came forward to 
speak to the Americano. He saluted as he glimpsed 
the tiny American flag in my buttonhole, and told 



146 We'll Stick to the Finish 

me in Italio-English that he once was in business 
on Broadway, New York City. 

"What was your Hne," I queried. 

"Put upa da foot." And as if to prove his 
assertion grasped a canteen dishcloth and pro- 
ceeded to demonstrate by polishing up my "Regal 
russet beauties." The snap of the cloth, a trick 
unknown in Italy, indicated him to have been a 
professional shoe-shiner in our great cosmopolitan 
city. As they grouped themselves on crags by 
the roadside, or amid barbed wire entanglements, 
the onlooking soldiers looked like a male chorus 
in "II Trovatore." 

"When I was in New York I subscriba to da 
Americano Red Cross," he proudly told me. 
"Now we geta da goods," he said, pointing to the 
big Rolling Canteen. 

These Rolling Canteens lumber along the camou- 
flaged roads like circus wagons. As a war vehicle, 
they have the right of way, and we often pulled 
into the ditch to let them pass, and willingly so, 
for they were going forward with relief and cheer 
to the soldiers returning from the front. 

The work of operating the Rolling Canteen is 
as hazardous as any work of the Red Cross. 
Since my return I have received word of the death 
of Lieutenant Edward McKay, who was in charge 



C*est la Guerre — It is the War 147 

of Canteen No. 1 in Italy. I am not surprised, for 
the workers must travel dangerous roads just 
back of the front line, and are exposed to shell 
fire the same as soldiers. No man could die more 
truly in the line of duty than Lieutenant McKay. 
I found him stationed in one of the most hazardous 
passes in the mountains of the Western Italian 
front, the place where the last Austrian drive 
began. He was the only American in that section 
when I was there. His presence in such a place 
brought a salute from me, for the Rolling Canteen 
was a tangible evidence of the help of "big brothers" 
from across the sea. Imagine for yourself the 
picture as I saw it only a few weeks before the 
drive in which the brilliant young lieutenant lost 
his life! Above the kitchen on three sides are 
towering mountains. The pass is so narrow that 
there is room only for a built-in road, a few feet 
above a narrow dry stream. Great boulders from 
the cliffs are dislodged by shell fire and come 
rolling down the canyon. No water is in the 
ravine now, but when the snows melt or heavy 
rain falls, the dry bed of the stream may become 
a flume, through which a flood will rush with all 
the fury of a mountain freshet. 

The limit to which one may go is the head of 
the pass, for the enemy is just beyond, and he is 



148 Well Stick to the Finish 

on high, too. Far above the pass and blocking 
it at the farther end, is a mountain of granite. 
On that peak are the Austrians. Their guns 
command the defile. The enemy is so near that 
one feels the danger of even a stone being thrown 
from the emplacements, yet that peak is a mile 
in the air. 

Some day the desperate Austrians will try to 
come through that pass. Indeed, they have 
already tried it, and have swarmed a thousand 
strong to the very spot where Rolling Canteen 
No. 1 stands, only to be beaten back by the 
Italians. 

Once or twice a day, and nearly every night, 
Austrian gunners send shells crashing down into 
that shut-in place. The big 175's and 145's, to- 
gether with the smaller members of the destruc- 
tion family, send shots against the rocks and 
scatter shrapnel in all directions. The bomb- 
proof shelters must be sought, for nothing can 
live in the pass when the battery opens. Of 
course, men with nerves steeled become accus- 
tomed to danger, and as soon as there is a lull in 
the firing, the pass is inhabited again, the men 
coming from holes in the mountain sides to 
wink at the Austrian gunners on high and drink 
non-chalantly of the Red Cross coffee. 



C'est la Guerre — It is the War 149 

Now and then a bit of humor is added to the 
grim business. Sometimes the big shells fail to 
explode. There is one 175 fully charged standing 
on its base at the place where it landed, about 
twenty yards from the Rolling Canteen. It is 
fenced about with barbed wire and a rudely 
stencilled sign tacked to a scantling reads: 



PERICOLOSO 



"Perilous?" I should say so. The slightest 
jar might loose the forces inside the unexploded 
missile and scatter destruction over a radius several 
times twenty yards. Yet the men toy with it, 
dressing it up occasionally, putting a helmet and 
gas mask over its pointed nose. Perilous pastime! 

One shell which failed to explode afterwards 
served a useful purpose. The men of Canteen 
No. 1 recovered it and uncapping it drew its 
charge. They needed a coffee grinder just then 
very badly and the empty shell, weighing some 
sixt}^ pounds, was converted into a roller to crush 
the coffee berries until a grinder could be secured 
from headquarters. 

Troops which have been on duty in the pass 
or mountain-sides come to the Canteen by the 



150 We'll Stick to the Finish 

hundreds. Sometimes hot and hungry, at other 
times cold and hungry, but always hungry and 
always tired. It is here their appetites are 
relieved and their spirits revived. The American 
khaki uniform always gives promise of this. The 
Canteen men are usually waiting for them, the 
coffee is hot and food ever ready to serve. And 
there is American jam — ^plenty of it — to spread 
on the dry bread which the soldiers carry with 
them. Twenty -five hundred have been served 
in a single day by Canteen No. 1. Is it any 
wonder they go on their way down the moun- 
tain pass, or back to their dugouts with lighter 
hearts and voicing a new friendship between 
Italy and America? 

Red Cross men in charge of a Rolling Canteen 
must live close to the kitchen — it may mean a 
lean-to or a hut or a tent. Lieutenant McKay 
lived in a camouflaged shack built against a cliff 
which rose many meters overhead. When the 
shells were flying at night, he took refuge in a 
sandbagged cave on the nose of a mountain 
where it was difficult to get a word either to or 
from him. 

Out of the mountain pass has come only two 
requests, one for the coffee-grinder, the other for 
a phonograph to amuse the soldiers. Now and 



C'est la Guerre — It is the War 151 

again comes a command from the colonel of the 
regiment to have luncheon on the mountain top, 
for the officers appreciate the work that is being 
done fully as much as the soldiers of the line. 
It is an hour's climb to the top of the mountain 
by a zigzag footpath, but the Red Cross man 
brushes up his uniform, mounts a mule sent by 
the colonel and then on the peak there is much 
talk of the relief work of America. 

The men engaged in rolling canteen work are 
specially selected for the business in hand, and they 
find joy in the opportunity for exceptional service. 

From place to place these canteens go, following 
the needs of the soldiers. Thej^ are strongly 
built affairs of iron and steel, looking like big 
kitchen ranges on wheels. They have six places 
each for spacious set-in kettles, where coffee 
and occasionally soup may be kept always hot. 
Under the kettles is an oven burning wood, and 
once the metal kettles are heated, they will 
remain hot for sixteen hours at a time. Whether 
the soldiers pass in the night or the day, there is 
always something steaming hot to cheer them 
at these busy little Red Cross hotels on wheels. 
They are taken from one station to another 
by the "mother-car," a big lorry which serves 
as a storehouse for the jam and the coffee. Just 



152 We'll Stick to the Finish 

think of it — jam and coffee! Was there ever a 
time in the experiences of human life when jam 
and coffee mean more than now to these soldiers? 
The regular army rations pale into insignificance 
beside the jam — raspberry, blackberry, any kind — 
just so long as it is jam. For soldiers are boys 
again, great big boys, and the little things of life 
become very big and real, especially when they 
bring up memories of home and mother. Jam 
does this wonderfully. It rejuvenates, exhilarates, 
and makes the hardy veterans young again. 

The Rolling Canteen fills not only a needed but 
unique place in war work. It not only ministers 
to the medicinal needs of fighters, but it furnishes a 
little by-play, a sort of home pantry with a "bite 
between meals." Wherever it goes, it tells the 
men at the front that those at home are thinking 
of them and planning for their comfort. 

Standing there I thought, what would mothers 
not give to be able to spread a piece of bread 
with jam for her boy. I am sure she would "spread 
it thick." 



XIV 

ANDRE CITROEN, AN INDUSTRIAL 
LEADER OF FRANCE 

AN unexpected circumstance furnished an 
opportunity for a glimpse into industrial 
France. Aiter speaking at a luncheon in 
Paris, in which reference was made to America's 
industrial achievements in the w^ork of the war, a 
young man, under forty, approached. He was 
rather under medium height, with round face set 
off with a stubby mustache. Through his glasses I 
saw^ a pair of inquisitive eyes. He looked like my 
friend, L. K. Liggett. 

**You've told the story well," he said. "Would 
you like to visit an industrial plant and see how 
we are doing things over here?" 

There was a pleasing challenge in his tone, 
combined with compelling modesty. I no sooner 
nodded assent than we were whirling down the 
banks of the Seine, past Eiffel Tower, to Javal. 

The name, Andre Citroen, up to this time, 
meant very little to me. We stopped at a cluster 

(153) 



154 We'll Stick to the Finish 

of old renovated buildings, now transformed into, 
as I soon learned, a department store. On the 
first floor of the building was a meat shop, in the 
center of which was a glass counter so constructed 
as to afford a clear view through it all. The most 
appetizing array of meats were displayed in an 
attractive way. The prices were plainly marked, 
and so low as almost to cause a shock — a pound 
of ham less than the price of a sandwich. 

In other rooms of this building were to be 
found various kinds of food and wearing apparel. 
These rooms contained every article from sausages 
to millinery. 

Across the way was a shoe shop. Shoes at 
figures less than in the United States. And these 
were war prices, too! Various rooms were stored 
with hardware and useful household utensils. 
The main thing everywhere was the price. All 
customers had cards, without which they could 
not buy. 

"Looking after the necessities first," was his 
laconic comment, as partial explanation as to 
why we had stopped here in a supposed examina- 
tion of an industrial plant. 

Every customer held his card as if it was a 
government bond. Marked on it was the amount 
of each purchase. No money was used. At the 



C'est la Guerre — It is the War 155 

end of every week the totals were added and the 
profits, whatever they were, reverted directly to 
the purchasers. The customers were exclusively 
in the employ of Mr. Citroen. "Large purchases 
and short accounts is the story," he said. 

With very little comment about his own busi- 
ness, he kept up a rapid-fire of questions about 
the United States. 

On the historic road to Versailles is Javal. In 
less time than it takes to tell it, we were there 
and visiting a baby nursery. Here were forty or 
fifty nursing babies in the arms of mothers who 
had just returned from work, and who were 
chattering merrily about their babies, like children 
over dolls, each comparing the various points of 
excellence or beauty in the child. After a half 
hour these mothers would go back to the munition 
factory. They make these visits five times a day. 

*'En a-t-il se jolis yeux?" said one young mother 
to me. Mr. Citroen translated her words: "Has 
he not pretty eyes?" I nodded assent. "Mais il a 
les cheveux roux," jokingly added Mr. Citroen, 
referring to the auburn hair. *'0u ne trouverait 
pas de plus beaux cheveux dans toute la ville de 
Venise, Monsieur." She said it so prettily I 
asked for the transit'' 'One could not find 

prettier hair in all the city of Venice, Monsieui " 



156 We'll Stick to the Finish 

The hospital is in charge of expert nurses and is 
provided with every convenience. The wealthiest 
child on earth could not be better cared for. The 
fatiguing elements which every mother must bear 
in caring for a child are here entirely eliminated 
— only the joys remain. Wakeful nights with a 
fretful child are unknown. In sickness the child 
has the best that science and the medical world can 
provide. "Just the age of my little one at home," 
he said, taking up a wee tot. I was beginning 
to know Andre Citroen. 

"We can save fifty thousand babies of the 
working women of France in a year," he added, 
"if these nurseries multiply fast enough." 

Before I had recovered from my surprise at 
these two visits, I was in the largest munition 
factory in France. Acres on acres of floor space 
were covered with finished shells. The rims and 
tips were painted brown and yellow. Electric 
trucks, driven by girls, were whizzing by like fig- 
ures shown by a crazy camera on a screen. There 
seemed to be as much of a rush as in bringing up 
ammunition on the front lines. Yet every move- 
ment from crude iron to finished product was 
devoid of wasted energy. 

Through building after building, past miles 
and miles of lathes, foundries, welding machines. 



C*est la Guerre — It is the War 157 

trip hammers, blazing forges, and power rooms; 
going from plant to plant, covering acres and acres 
of ground, I became so confused with the magnitude 
that I was unable to comprehend what it was all 
about until, out of the grimy smoke and away from 
the noise of the hammer and whirr of wheels, I 
stood once more in the open air, and saw electric 
trucks in a continuous stream pouring the finished 
shells into countless cars to be taken to arsenal and 
then to the battle-field; I realized then the tremen- 
dous scope and power of the plant I had been 
through, and the meaning of the name Andre 
Citroen. 

After this we took our places at a table in a great 
dining hall. "Still looking after the necessities, 
you see," he remarked. We were seated in the 
same chairs as had been occupied by General 
Pershing and other Generals, Ambassadors, Presi- 
dents, Premiers, and distinguished visitors from 
all the Allied countries. Before us were thou- 
sands upon thousands of men and women eating. 
They come here in shifts and manifested all the 
care-freedom of the boulevard. The capacity of 
the hall provides for three thousand of employes. 

We ate the same food as the munition workers. 
I think it was Lloyd George who said, after a meal 
here: "For me this excels Hotel Crillon at its best." 



158 We'll Stick to the Finish 

At Christmas five thousand children of the 
employees were given a dinner, each one pre- 
sented a gift, and enjoyed a moving picture show. 
Not a child was accompanied by its parent, but 
not one was lost. Mrs. Sharpe, wife of the Ameri- 
can ambassador, was one of the patronesses at 
this occasion. The real Andre Citroen was begin- 
ning to come out. 

Born in Rue Lafitte at the Place de Pere, he is 
a native Parisian. He is a graduate in the Engi- 
neering Department of the Polytechnic School, and 
served as an officer in the Artillery. For thirteen 
years he was a manufacturer of motor cars. When 
the war broke out, he was at the front, serving 
six months during the early drive. Here he saw 
a pitiable lack of ammunition. He went to the 
Department of War and obtained from the govern- 
ment, after much difficulty, the financial backing 
of six million francs on condition that he would 
erect a plant in six months, capable of turning out 
five thousand shells a day. His former partners 
refused to join him in the undertaking. Undaunted, 
he began alone. Hence the one name of his plant, 
Andre Citroen. 

At the end of six months, he was turning out five 
thousand. This was in August, 1915. By July, 
1917, he was turning out forty thousand a day, 



C*est la Guerre — It is the War 159 

and now, in 1918, approximately sixty thousand, 
together with one million bullets. In the pro- 
duction of this huge output, three hundred and 
fifty tons of iron and one hundred tons of lead are 
consumed every twenty -four hours. 

The personnel of his plant embraces ten thou- 
sand men and women. Six thousand are women, 
two thousand disabled soldiers, and two thousand 
men over and under military age. 

Some idea of the welfare of his employes may be 
shown by the manner in which the teeth are 
looked after, his dental force operating on one 
hundred a day. The teeth of every employe are 
gone over every month. All the cooks, waitresses 
and chefs, together with all others having contact 
with the food, have their nails freshly manicured 
every day. Two hundred and fifty births among 
the women in his employ have been recorded 
since 1915, over one hundred of whom have been 
looked after by his nursery staff. 

Mr. Citroen deals only with three men in the 
administration of the plant. First, one on instal- 
lation; the second, on fabrication; the third, on 
health and welfare. He is his own sales manager 
and purchasing agent. He also buys the coal 
for all the factories in Paris. The industries in 
Paris alone consume about half the coal used in 



160 We'll Stick to the Finish 

the entire country. Women are almost exclusively 
employed in the laboratories. The wages of his 
employes have doubled since he first started his 
plant, and with the advantages of the "company 
store" they save money and invest in French 
bonds. He contends that every one of the twenty- 
four provinces of France should buy their own 
necessities, thus reducing the cost to the people. 

Leaving, we went down into the Metro Tube 
(the subway). It was just at the hour of changing 
shifts. Trains were coming and going in a bewild- 
ering stream, part bringing employes, and part 
taking them home. Looking into their faces, we 
could not discern any difference in expression on 
those coming from, to those going to work. Both 
throngs seemed equally bright, vigorous and 
contented. 

**Monsieur," he said, with an unspeakable glad- 
ness in his eyes, "this is the test." 

As I looked upon him, his happiness seemed 
complete in the knowledge that beyond all in- 
dustrial achievements, is the people — their con- 
tentment, joy of service, and their moral and 
physical well-being. In his human impulses I now 
felt that I knew Andre Citroen. 







Copyriaht by Undvrwuod ifc Underwood 7>9 

SIR DOUGLAS HAIG, COMMANDER IX CHIEF OF BRITISH ARMYi' ^""^1 




LLOYD GEORGE, PREMIER OF ENGLAND 




Copyright, Undenvood & Un<luu,,uil 

GENERALISSIMO FOCH 

Commander-in-Chief of Allied Armies 



XV 



GENERALISSIMO FOCH, THE STRATEGIST 



WHAT I expected to find in the Generalissimo 
of the Allied armies was just the reverse 
of what I did find. Nothing of the tower- 
ing greatness which belongs to supreme leaders 
was in evidence. His personal appearance was 
disappointing. Somewhat undersized, of sHght 
build— with no trace of the athlete, his face bronzed 
and deeply lined— there was nothing in his physical 
appearance that was imposing. 

Even the salute between him and General 
Pershing was one of brotherly warmth rather 
than of military dignity. ^Yhen through the 
interpreter I told him that I had spent the previous 
Sunday with Marshal Joffre and from that inter- 
view had tried to assimilate proper manners with 
which to approach one of his rank, he simply 
smiled. Even the sharp clicking of my heels and 
my quick and formal salute seemed to amuse him 
more than anything else. 



(161) 



162 We'll Stick to the Finish 

But I soon learned that his simplicity was his 
greatness. Living, as he has all his life, apart from 
society, and having little interest in it, he lacks 
all the graces which are conspicuous in many of 
his subordinates. 

The abstemious life which he acquired in youth 
and has rigidly maintained accounts in part for 
his slender frame. His parents lacked the means 
to educate their sons liberally and the habits 
formed in the Polytechnic days cling to him even 
now. He is essentially an intellectual — a brain 
on fire. 

His head is peculiarly formed. Even his military 
red cap twined with golden oak leaves sat strangely 
on his head as he stood before me. Yet above his 
square jaw and firm mouth were eyes which 
seemed to see everything. His whole bearing 
suggested the class-room rather than the battle- 
field. 

Yet he was far from the stoic. There was a 
quickness and intensity about his movements 
which indicated temperament and bore out the 
things which I had heard about him. Among his 
associates he is regarded as highly nervous. His 
gestures were few but flashing. His movements 
were unexpected, surprising, and distinctively his 
own. 



Cest la Guerre— It is the War 163 

I had not been with him long before I could 
discern that he was a man apart from any civilian 
standards — original, surprising, and magnetic. 

Though he saw service in 1870, the greater part 
of his life has been entirely out of the public view. 
Yet during those forty silent years he has not 
been inactive, nor have they been voiceless years. 
He often says, "Next to military experience is 
military history." From the ends of the earth 
this mystic brain has been drawing inductions 
from the greatest battles of history. From Caesar 
and Napoleon to present-day leaders he has 
assimilated the tactics which he has disseminated 
in the class room at the war academy, and in his 
published works. Once every ten years some 
volume on technical strategy has appeared from 
his pen. Artillery has been one of his specialties. 

During this war much has been said about the 
French '75's. It is not generally known that 
Foch put on a workingman's blouse and went 
about the Creusot Works when he was com- 
missioned to make an official report on the gun 
which has made life intolerable for the Huns. 

From all these years of experiment and medi- 
tation he has come forth as the one supreme 
mihtary brain of the age. Only sixty-seven years 
of age he is a Zeus in knowledge and deserving of 



164 Well Stick to the Finish 

the tribute paid to him by Joffre, who had known 
him from early childhood, they having been boys 
together: "The greatest strategist in Europe and 
the humblest." 

It is because he knows that his Staff listens to 
him. It is significant that nearly all the generals 
prominent in the French Army today were once 
his pupils. His brain is the brain of the French 
Army. Berlin has recognized it and he is ranked 
by the Militar-Wochenblatt, official organ of the 
Berlin general staff, as the one strategist of high 
capacity in the ranks of the Allies. 

At the battle of the Marne he stepped out of 
the quiet atmosphere of the class-room to be 
known henceforth as a Caesar in conception and 
a Napoleon in action, to illustrate to the world 
his one great axiom "find the weak spot of the 
enemy and surprise him; if there is no weak spot 
make one." 

In that memorable battle on September 9th, 
he believed there must be a gap between the 
Prussian Guard and the Saxon Army. From all 
the country round he brought his artillery, and 
when he crushed the guard on the Saint-Gond 
marshes, a new field genius was born. 

His famous message to Joffre at this battle will 
be repeated as long as the world stands: "My 



Cest la Guerre— It is the War 165 

right and left wings are turned and my center is 
crushed in, but I am attacking immediately. 

No battle in history could have shown the 
man better than this. Contrary to all military 
tactics— the placing of superior forces opposite a 
weak point— he attacked with a broken and 
shattered army forces vastly outnumbering his 
own, utterly confounding them. 

During the anxious days in March and April, 
1918, when the enemy was driving deep wedges 
into his front, contrary to all expectations, and 
against all his subscribed theories of the value of 
attack, he said: "Wait a little." 

He must know. The temperament of the French 
people— he knows. His whole career suggests that 
he is the one man to know. His grip on his gen- 
erals, calling them each by name, carries the con- 
viction that he knoirs. Void of all isolation, inci- 
dent to his command, out on the field as he was 
at the Marne when wounded, knowing infantry- 
man and artilleryman, proves he must hww 
Holding the confidence of the whole Allied 
world, bearing in his hands the destinies of all 
free peoples, he must know. 



XVI 

SIR DOUGLAS HAIG, BRITISH 
COMMANDER 

I NEVER went so far and spent so little time 
with a person of note as with Sir Douglas Haig, 
especially when this was the sole purpose of 
this particular journey. But there was a reason. 
The most critical days of the war were on, and the 
Huns were taking up most of Sir Douglas' atten- 
tion. The diflSculty of reaching his headquarters 
was augmented by bombardment. Transpor- 
tation was a puzzle. 

My visit with Sir Douglas consisted prin- 
cipally of a salute. He was just starting away 
with his orderlies. As he sat in the saddle, every 
inch a horseman, he was the perfect picture of 
the Hussar of years ago — and this skill probably 
was partially responsible for his entry into the 
army. When at Oxford he was all set for a 
literary^ career, but reverses came in the family 
and hejjWas obliged to seek other fields. It was 
his ability as a rider that at this time suggested 

(166) 



C^est la Guerre — It is the War 167 

the cavalry, but the cavalry was not then in high 
repute with the military authorities. 

It was not until Kitchener began his great expe- 
dition into Sudan that Haig's horsemanship availed 
him much. Yet through that long and exhaustive 
drive in the desert with Kitchener he accom- 
plished something few have ever succeeded in 
doing. He made the cold iron of the Earl bend to 
the warmth in his nature and to a recognition of 
his worth. It was not until the Boer AYar that he 
came fully to his own. It was his cavalry which 
turned the British reverse into a success. 

Sir Douglas has always been a strong champion 
for cavalry, and has been an ardent admirer all 
his life of J. E. B. Stuart, the cavalry leader of the 
Confederacy, whom he regarded as the supreme 
cavalry genius of the nineteenth century. Even 
when he was at Aldershot he impressed Stuart's 
career upon his staff. He even prophesied that 
Berlin would rue the day when she failed to 
develop this arm of service. 

At Cambrai, after Byng's drive had begun to 
slow down, it was the British cavalry which deliv- 
ered such crushing blows and vindicated Sir 
Douglas' belief in its value. 

As he sat there on his horse somebody remarked : 
"Did you ever see a more graceful rider?" He was 



168 We'll Stick to the Finish 

about the last word in a carefully-groomed soldier. 
His hair was smoothed down even to the last stray 
lock, his face fresh-shaven, except, of course, his 
military mustache. All in all, he looked much 
younger than his years indicate. 

As I gazed into his face so finely chiseled, I did 
not wonder that he was the one man to cause a 
flutter in the feminine heart and to be enshrined 
there as the ideal soldier. On this day his face had 
a very serious cast. He reminded me of the iron 
Kitchener whom I had seen riding in the Corona- 
tion parade. A sunny Scotch smile overspread 
Haig's handsome features as he rode away. 

One of the Scotch soldiers standing about pointed 
to one of his company and said: 

"That's the Chief's chaplain. Ye ken he's vera 
religious." 

It is reported that Sir Douglas' chaplain goes 
with him everywhere. He has the soul of a Scot 
and never misses a morning service at the front. 
Inquiring my way to headquarters, I had encoun- 
tered a number of the "Hieland" boys, but they 
were unaccompanied by the squeaking strains of 
the bagpipe. 

While waiting for Sir Douglas' return, I had an 
opportunity to glimpse his headquarters. One 
article is always indispensable in his room, and 



Cest la Guerre— It is the War 169 

that is the Bible. Probably it was the very same 
one which he lost in the Boer campaign, and or 
which he mourned until it was found. Su' Douglas 
is also a keen student of metaphysical and dogmatic 
subjects, but it may be questioned whether he 
finds much time for a perusal of these studies 

""""what wonder that one of the Scotties standing 
near should say of him: 

"He's a bonny chief." ^ 

For Sir Douglas bears out the admiration ot his 
men Of stainless character and brilhant mmd, 
he would have been the one general to delight 
Napoleon, who expressed great fondness for a 
general whose character and intellect blended, i he 
little Corsican deemed that this was a necessity tor 
the highest military success. 

He is a great favorite in the British War Office. 
His fine courtesy and deference being in striking 
contrast to the brusqueness of Kitchener. It is 
not often "that manners are the man in so lull a 
sense as in Sir Douglas Haig. But he is a fighter 
as well. His dogged determination was seen during 
the terrific push of the Huns for the Channel 
ports, and in their efforts to separate the French 
from the British. His words, "We are standmg 
with our backs against the wall" will long live as 



170 We'll Stick to the Finish 

reflecting not only the spirit of this dauntless 
leader, but of the whole British Empire as well. 

My time was up, and Sir Douglas did not return 
as expected, for the drive was on. I had had a 
wave of his hand and a few words from the "Tom- 
mies" about him. The British soldier is proverbial 
for what he does not say. I found him so. 

Yet as I rode away toward Amiens, our motor 
car bumping into the fresh destruction wrought 
by the Huns, and perhaps over the freshest-turned 
sod by these master plowmen, the picture of Haig 
fastened itself on my mind. It was a trying time 
for the British Army, and Sir Douglas Haig during 
that tempest drive added glory to the valor of 
British arms. Bravest of brave — the men of Sir 
Douglas are astonished if complimented upon 
mere heroism. 

"We only do our duty, sir, and Sir Douglas 
expects that," was the remark of an English ser- 
geant who had been three times wounded and 
was keen for another "big show" at Ypres with 
Sir Douglas in command. 



XVII 

LLOYD GEORGE— THE LION OF 
NO. 10 DOWNING STREET 

THE center of things in the British Empire 
is No. 10 Downing Street. I visited it twice. 
The building is located at the end of a short 
street, which looks like a blind alley, or what we 
would call in America, a "place." Nobody gets 
any farther than No. 10. On the door is an old- 
fashioned knocker. At the side of the door there 
are three bells — all labeled — one for visitors, one 
for servants, and one for messengers, so I knew 
which one to ring. 

Once inside, the visitor is impressed with the 
severe plainness of the place. There is but little 
furniture, the only conspicuous exception being 
a high-backed chair, such as might grace a throne 
room. All around the frieze are heads of animals 
brought from different parts of the empire and 
placed there by Lord Asquith's son when the father 
was Premier. Through a dark hall, hung with 
pictures of former ministers, you enter the Cabinet 

(171) 



172 We'll Stick to the Finish 

room. In the center is a very wide table covered 
with green cloth. A few pictures adorn the walls. 
Looking out of the window is a garden. 

In a room to the left was the private secretary, 
Mr. Sutherland, buried in a mass of papers, and 
looking like an exchange editor. In the room to 
the right was another private secretary, Mrs. 
Stevenson, whose services have extended over a 
wide period. Many a letter supposed to be signed 
by a man, with the one name, ''Stevenson," is in 
a woman's handwriting. She is an encyclopedia 
for names and incidents. 

It was in the center room that v/e met the great 
spokesman of the British Empire, Lloyd George. 
Advancing, he said: "Here is where the dirty work 
was done," referring, in a jocular way, to the acts 
of a hundred years ago. In personal appearance, 
he is short, thin and wiry, yet full-chested and of 
athletic build. One could imagine that in action 
on the links or in the war office he smites like a 
lightning flash. A Rooseveltian intensity radiates 
from his gray eyes. His forehead is full and high, 
from which, except for a close-parting on the left 
side, his iron gray hair is pushed straight back. 
Under his loosely falling mustache it is easy to 
discern the mouth of an orator. He had aged 
a bit since I saw him eight years ago, yet he gave 



C'est la Guerre— It is the War 173 

evidence of having grown mightily in physical and 
mental power. 

He had just come in from Walton Heath, where 
he spends Sundays, resting and hammering out 
the dents of "trouble-corner." 

Lloyd George makes it clear at the start that 
he does not wish to have his private utterances 
quoted. What he says for public consumption is 
given to the people direct. There were lively times 
at No. 10. The Maurice affair was on. The House 
of Commons had just given him the vote of confi- 
dence on the conduct of the war. Something of 
the pristine strength of his ringing speech, when 
he utterly routed his critics, seemed to rest upon 
him. If Clemenceau carried the role of "The 
Tiger," Lloyd George looked "The Lion." 

When he received a telegram from Billy Sunday, 
praising him for his speech, he was pleased and 
said, "Bully for Billy." 

The great war had seemed to put more flmt 
than ever in his face, and I could but feel that the 
words he uttered concerning Clemenceau, "He is 
a hard man to refuse," might be true of him also. 
The Irish question was acute. As I remember, 
it was Michael Devitt who first inspired in him 
the idea of running for Parliament. Devitt had 
been speaking on Home Rule. Lloyd George was 



174 WeHl Stick to the Finish 

so impressed that he was chosen to move a vote 
of thanks to the speaker. His words were couched 
in such lucid and epigrammatic phrase that Devitt 
told the people he ought to be in the House of 
Parliament, at the same time prophesying a bril- 
liant career. It would not be strange if he should 
be instrumental in helping solve the question of 
Home Rule for Ireland. 

As I sat there talking informally with this man, 
I could not refrain from recalling the massive 
strides he had taken, not only since I last saw him, 
but also from his humble beginnings as a barrister 
in a Welsh town. Left poor by his father, he 
struggled on until he was admitted to the bar at 
twenty-one. He often said that his first parlia- 
ment was in the "smithy" of Hugh Jones in 
Wales, where, with the townsfolk all questions were 
discussed for this world and for the next. They 
"warmed up" with politics, then took up science 
and philosophy, and came back to politics again. 

Denied the privileges of Oxford and Cambridge, 
he has been granted honorary degrees in both, 
and during the period of my visit was off to Edin- 
burgh to take another honorary degree. Yet he 
ever paid tribute to the humble school of his home 
town, saying "Whatever I do, I owe to the little 
school at Bethel." 



Cest la Guerre— It is the War 175 

When he first began pubHc life it was the habit 
of his wife to accompany him everywhere in an 
inspirational capacity. Later, a marvelously gifted 
daughter was of incalculable help, and her death 
was perhaps the greatest sorrow of his life. 

His path was never smooth, yet this little David 
struggled on. When he first entered Parliament, 
he himself felt that he was a misfit. The scoffs and 
sneers of the gentry freely came his way. Yet 
there was one seer in Parliament who recognized 
his worth and who praised him for his maiden 
speech — that man was Gladstone. 

His first appearance in the Cabinet was in the 
capacity of a business man rather than that of a 
lawyer or statesman. He appeared as president 
of the Board of Trade, which body differs mate- 
rially from the moribund organizations in this 
country, for in England the Board of Trade repre- 
sents the controlling factors in the big business 
of the Empire. It was in this capacity that he 
early exemplified a tendency to smash traditions. 

A representative of the Seaman's Union fur- 
nished me with an illustration of this. He said 
at one time a delegation, after being promised help, 
were told to come back for his disposition of the 
matter. As they did so, they were met by another 
functionary of the Board, who not only refused 



176 We'll Stick to the Finish 

them admittance, but told them that the promised 
help could not be given. Lloyd George entered, 
greeted them and asked them to come in, and in 
ten minutes had done what moss-grown customs 
said could not be done. 

Just at this junction some old Welsh friends 
came in to call at No. 10 Downing Street. I could 
not understand the Welsh phrases or names. I 
did manage, however, to catch the name of one 
town, and that was Llanystumdwy. No wonder 
that town produced something, and that his uncle, 
"the learned cobbler," to whom the boy David 
was turned over on the death of his father, has in 
the Premier of Great Britain one not only capable 
of delivering impassioned speeches in his native 
tongue, but who is a master of English diction as 
well. Their visit formed the link to the one great 
accomplishment of his life. 

Like Talleyrand, he seldom ever writes a letter 
or destroys one. He is pre-eminently a speaker, 
the only notable exception to this was at Birming- 
ham. He said: "When they refused to hear me, 
I dictated the speech behind the scenes while the 
crowd was storming outside; but it was printed in 
full in the papers next morning. Your Congres- 
sional Records contain many speeches never deliv- 
ered, *by leave to print,' " he said. All of his 




Copi/riuht hy Umtrruood ,{- Intlrrvoo,! 

siRiERic geddp:s 

Rritdin's First Lor*! of tho A.lmirallv 




ADMIRAL WILLIAM S. SIMS, U. S. N. 
This photograph is a recent one, taken in London 



Cest la Guerre — It is the War IHI 

notable utterances are extemporaneous, and 
whether in public debate or private conversa- 
tion, his words fall into place with spontaneous 
precision and beautiful structure. 

Before taking up the duties of Premiership, he 
proved his worth as Minister of Munitions. 

All these steps lead up naturally to the high place 
he holds in the Empire and quite clearly show 
manifest destiny. How comes it that five hundred 
million of his countrymen look to him as one 
hundred million Americans to President Wilson 
for the word which is to give direction to the war? 
He is pre-eminently the voice of one crying in the 
wilderness make straight the path of free peoples. 

It is not to be wondered that in the opening 
paragraphs of his first speech as Premier he should 
quote the words of Abraham Lincoln: "We 
accepted the war for an object, a worthy object. 
The war will end when that object is attained. 
Under God, I hope it will never end until that 
time." 

Always a great traveler, having spent much 
time in Germany, he not only knows the enemy, but 
the Allies as well. He cherishes a warm regard for 
America and loves the story of Lincoln. Like 
Lincoln, he hates slavery, as practiced by the 
Hun in bleeding Belgium or paralytic Russia. 



17S We'll Stick to the Finish 

His one passion is to hit oppression between the 
eyes, to see weaker peoples lifted up, and peace 
made the heritage of the world. 

He is particularly fitted for leadership in the 
present crisis. First elected to the House of Com- 
mons by a majority of only eighteen votes, he was 
sent by the Welsh as a man representing the 
common people. Since that day he has ever 
remained a true Commoner. Of the plain people, 
for the plain people, and by the plain people he 
truly represents them. Probably he is the first man 
to be Premier of England who was not a college 
graduate. He is close to that great circle, in which 
most men are destined to live and die, spoken of 
as the working class. He talks with them, even 
going to the mouth of the mines to do so. He 
knows their needs, their aims, and their hopes. 
That he has held them loyal in the great war is 
one of his most masterful achievements. 

Not only is he the representative of the laborer, 
but also the champion of patriotic gentry. The 
rights and duties of both are blended by him in 
a new community of interest in which each is for 
all and all for each. 

Even his first public speaking as a temperance 
advocate serves him well now and fits him to be 
a leader in war prohibition. But it is as the 



C^est la Guerre — It is the War 179 

mouth-piece of an empire that he comes to his 
own. As a debater, he ranks as one of the great- 
est England has produced. No matter what the 
occasion, he rises to it. To his unusual command 
of language must be added a marvelously musical 
voice. 

In Parliament I saw his colleague, A. Bonar 
Law, a veritable antithesis of the Premier. He 
was formerly an iron manufacturer in Glasgow and 
is pre-eminently a business man, whose tongue 
never turns a purple phrase. He deals in figures, 
and his tabulations have all the fascination of a ro- 
mance. He is the business brains of the Empire! 
The friend with whom I was sitting in the gallery 
said: "Bonar Law may hear his budget torn to 
tatters in the debate, but it will remain just as he 
put it." A. Bonar Law is a man to plan, and 
Lloyd George is a man for action. Two iron men, 
political rivals, working together in concord. 

Coming out of No. 10 Downing Street, with its 
comparative quiet, I seemed to hear the rich 
cadences of one voice — a voice first raised in the 
shop of Hugh Jones, where, amid the flash of the 
forge and the din of hammer, it joined in political 
comment in what constituted that first Parliament 
of David Lloyd George. Emerging into the din 
of London's busy streets, made deafening by 



180 



We'll Stick to the Finish 



the rumble of war-laden trucks, I heard, speaking 
not only for empire, but for the federation of the 
world, the crashing and defiant voice of Lloyd 
George — ''To the knock-out.** 



XVIII 



THE ADMIRALTY" AND ADMIRAL SIMS 



4 RRIVING in London my first impulse was 
yY to locate Admiral Sims. I set out im- 
mediately for Grosvenor Garden, once an 
exclusive residential section, but now the center 
of American activity. Here were the American 
Embassy, and the Naval and Red Cross head- 
quarters. A familiar flag waved at Number 28. I 
knew Admiral Sims was there. His oj6Bce is on 
the second floor. He was seated at his desk as I 
entered, but rose to greet me — his slight and tall 
form pushing upward until it resembled a Carolina 
pine. After the hazardous journey across the 
Channel the prevous night, it was good to see the 
man whose watchful arm of service spells safety 
in the danger zone. 

He was just finishing some dispatches for a 
returning ship. When they were completed, tea 
was served on his big flat desk. Over the cups in 
what seemed to me an incredibly short time, and 

(181) 



182 We'll Stick to the Finish 

with an ease and simplicity, that was startling, he 
had drawn with pencil and paper, diagrams show- 
ing American naval activities in the North Sea, 
and the destroyer base, indicating how they had 
accounted for thirty-eight of the enemy subma- 
rines. I asked for these diagrams as souvenirs, 
and I value them among the most treasured re- 
minders of my trip. 

Here was the man whose epigrammatic phrase, 
in reply to the question as to when the American 
Navy would be ready, "We are ready now!" not 
only captured the British Admiralty, but thrilled 
his own countrymen as well. 

He had just been preparing a message on 
Mother's Day. I was complimented when he 
asked me to hear it read. If the people at home 
could have seen his face and listened to the soft 
music of his voice, they would have seen how 
tender at heart is this man of iron and steel. 
Before he began reading, he said with a touch of 
the lover and father: 

"When you get home, won't you go to Newport 
and see Mrs. Sims and the kiddies?" 

Then emphasizing some of the words in his 
message he said: 

"Tell the people at home how they can help 
the fighting men abroad. We of the Army and 



C*est la Guerre — It is the War 18S 

Navy can do nothing without destroyers, ammu- 
nition and food. These cannot be brought to 
us without ships. All of these essentials must be 
supplied from home, and in supplying them 
everybody can help by each one doing his work 
with a smile, and with all his might. The men 
who are building destroyers and merchant ships 
are really in the iSghting line. Every blow of 
their hammers is a blow at the enemy." 

When I spoke of the patriotic spirit in the 
American homes, he said: 

"Wives can help so much by taking care of 
men who are doing their part in the work by 
making their homes pleasant and encouraging 
them." 

Then with a fine touch he added: 

"Even little children can help by being good 
and assisting their mothers. Everybody can help 
by wasting nothing — neither food, nor money, nor 
clothing, nor time." 

As if a broader vision came to him he continued : 

"Work in factory, farm, or office matters very 
much. The accumulative effect of many millions 
of jobs has its influence upon the war." 

Straightening back he remarked with emphasis: 

"There are just two things to do to win the 
war — work and fight." 



184 We'll Stick to the Finish 

Then referring to my visits on the various 
battle fronts, he said: 

"You've seen enough in France and Italy to 
show you how four years of war has worn down 
the people. Now our people must furnish the 
fresh reserves." 

To keep these epigrams going I asked: *Tn 
your work, Admiral, what gives you the greatest 
satisfaction?" 

"The spirit of our men working with the men of 
other navies — they are like old messmates." 

After looking in vain for the sugar for our tea 
the Admiral added, "We are working in perfect 
harmony and fellowship, not only alongside of, but 
with the navies of the Allies." 

When I asked him what the Grand Fleet was 
doing, he caught up pencil and paper, and in a 
moment with surprising dexterity, showing minute 
knowledge of the whole range of action, he began 
drawing diagrams. At a certain place with a 
blue pencil, he indicated where the Allies planted 
mines by day, and with a red pencil how the 
Germans swept them out by night, this process 
being repeated day by day. 

Just then he was interrupted to say good-bye 
to a messenger who was leaving for America 
bearing important documents. 



Cest la Guerre— It is the War 185 

While I was sitting in a corner waiting, how 
proud I felt of this man. Canadian born, an 
instructor in the Naval War College at Newport, 
there was something in his bearing which seenied 
particularly to fit him for the work of blending 
navies together. His splendid American uniform 
with its trim collar fitted his tall classic frame, 
and his every movement indicated a rare combi- 
nation of the gentleman and the fighter— the 
diplomat and the Admiral. His desk was as 
broad as the quarter deck of a ship, yet mdi- 
cated by its neat appearance the precision of the 

man. 

Little did the builders of the old Grosvenor 
Mansion think that one of the rooms on the second 
floor back would open its folding doors as the 
headquarters of the American Navy in Europe. 

Finally he said: "You must first visit the 
Admiralty, and I will arrange it. The big thing 
for you to do is to see the Grand Fleet and visit 
the destroyer base." I felt at once that I was 
under "orders." 

SIR ERIC GEDDES, FIRST LORD OF THE ADMIRALTY 

At the Admiralty there seemed to be a new 
welcomish sort of atmosphere. I did not quite 
understand this until I saw a certain familiar 



186 We'll Stick to the Finish 

figure and remembered the story of his career in 
the United States. His manner was that of a 
manager in a large American industrial corpora- 
tion. When I found he was so much interested 
in the South, I promised to send him one of our 
publications entitled **Wizards of the Saddle," 
in which there is a special tribute paid to one of 
his heroes, "Jeb" Stuart of Confederate fame. 

From the manager of baggage-smashers to the 
direction of fleet-smashers has a decidedly Ameri- 
can sound, yet that compasses the story of Sir 
Eric Geddes. 

When he was sent to the Merchiston Castle 
School in Edinburgh, the head master, after some 
years, said to him: 

*'Ye've no metaphysics, ye've no leeterature, 
ye've no art, but ye've a future." 

When young Eric, still in his teens, started away 
to America and engaged as a foreman of a crew 
in a lumber camp in the South, there was not 
much promise. Yet, clad in his blue overalls, out 
in the great forests, he was absorbing the embryo 
knowledge which was to enter into the prophesied 
career. It was here that he gained the first lessons 
in the handling of labor. His success with men, 
in winning their affection, co-ordinating their 
efforts in production, soon reached the ears of a 



Cest la Guerre— It is the War 187 

high official of the Baltimore & Ohio Railroad, and 
the youthful Scot was put at the task of superin- 
tending station agents and the construction of 
power houses and freight yards. 

Again he proved he was master. By the side 
of the railroad he proved to be "the friend of man." 
More than that, he knew how to get things done. 

It was not long before he received a flattering 
offer from a railway company in India, where his 
father was once a civil engineer and made his 
fortune. Here he applied the very same prin- 
ciples which he had learned in the South with 
*Tinnegan and Flannagan." He streaked his way 
through the railway hierarchy with the speed of a 
comet. 

His name finally came to the attention of 
oflScials of the Great Northeastern in England. 
He was but thirty years old at the time. When the 
period of labor strikes began in Great Britain, on 
that dark night just before the war, he proved to 
be the most powerful link between labor and 
corporation, between working men and capital. 
His knowledge of men, their working conditions, 
their hopes and hardships had been gained while 
he, himself, toiled in blue overalls. He came to 
the adjustment of these labor situations not with a 
theory, but with an experience. Lloyd George, 



188 We'll Stick to the Finish 

in many an eloquent and complimentary phrase, 
praised him for the manner in which he handled 
some of the most baffling strikes. 

When it became necessary for the transfer of 
the railroads of the empire from boards of directors 
to the government itself, he proved to be the one 
pivotal man around whom the movement could 
turn. 

This explained the large number of maps which 
I saw on the walls, indicating the great route 
centers of the Empire. 

Up to two years ago; the world knew very little 
about this man. Yet the war gave Sir Eric the 
opportunity to become one of the pre-eminent 
figures in the great conflict and to make his name 
a household word on all sides of the seas. 

It was the transportation question on the 
Western Front, the construction of railways in 
the war zone commensurate with the great need 
of moving supplies and guns, which brought Sir 
Eric to his present place in the empire. It was a 
giant's task and it was proven that a giant had 
taken it up. His success was immediate in France 
and he was rewarded with a knighthood. 

It was during his sojourn in the South that he 
made a study of the blockade during the Civil 
War. He maintains now that the cause of the 



Cest la Guerre— It is the War 



189 



Confederacy was doomed from the first, because 
of the persistence and tenacity of the blockade. 

In the Admiralty his one insistence has been on 
the blockade. No matter what Germany's sub- 
marines might do or her spiked-helmeted armies 
accomphsh, the sea could never be hers. To form 
a blockade through which no supplies could reach 
the enemy has been his one creed. This was to be 
the steel noose around the neck of Germany which 
would sooner or later strangle her to death. 

ADMIRAL SIR DAVID BEATTY 

Quite naturally when I visited the Grand Fleet 
my eyes sought out the First Admiral— Sir David 
Beatty. I was particularly interested in the man, 
for he is a good example in life and practice of the 
spirit of the Allied nations now so fully manifest. 

His marriage to the daughter of Marshall Field 
of Chicago resulted in a happy alliance of nation- 
ality. For in this war Lady Beatty has shown 
herself not only to be a woman of great patriotism, 
but of magnificent spirit and ability as well. 

She used her yacht as a hospital tender, carrying 
wounded soldiers and supplies from one hospital 
to another, and has provided surgeons and acces- 
sories from her own means to soothe and restore 
those broken in the stress of battle. She has cared 



190 We'll Stick to the Finish 

little for a large place in society; rather her whole 
energies have been bent to help her gallant 
husband in the service of his country and to the 
cause of humanity. 

The career of Sir David Beatty is, therefore, 
particularly interesting to Americans. 

From the day when he stepped on the deck as a 
midshipman, thirty years ago, to the present hour, 
his rise has been more rapid than even the naval 
rules of Great Britain allow — special legislation 
being needed for one of his age. At twenty -nine 
he was captain of the Queen, and on relinquishing 
her went to the Admiralty as naval adviser to the 
First Lord. His advice, however, did not harmon- 
ize particularly well with the then First Lord, and 
he was retired on half pay; but when Churchill 
came to power again he sent for Sir David and 
restored him as First Adviser. From Naval 
Adviser he stepped on deck again to command 
what is probably the most formidable fleet of 
fighting ships which ever sailed the blue. 

Off ship, Sir David appears the typical country 
gentleman, his fine features and clean-cut bearing 
making him a marked man in any company. He 
never talks ship when on shore, and is the pro- 
verbial Briton as to his silence about the move- 
ments of the fleet. Yet on board ship he is a sailor, 



Cest la Guerre— It is the War 191 

a worker, a master of detail, a manager of men, the 
infuser of spirit and courage. At the battle of 
Jutland, notice was served on the world that m 
him Great Britain has another Nelson m the 
making, cool, capable, resourceful, dauntless, m 
whose hands the destiny of a mighty fleet is sate^ 
In the brilliant action of the British fleet ott 
HeUgoland, when iheBlucher was sunk, he proved 
himself to be worthy of the promotion which 
followed. 

SIR ROSSLYN WEMYSS 

When I saw a man in a naval uniform walking 
across the courtyard at the Admiralty, a bystander 
whispered, "There's Wemyss." A mysterious 
Admiralty aureole surrounds the "First Sea Lord, 
whoever he may be. Little known to the pubhc. 
Sir Rosslyn Wemyss (pronounced Weems; carries 
out this role. In the hot sun, almost under the 
shadow of the Admiralty walls, I gleaned from 
Mr. Arthur Pollen, a naval expert writer, some 
information of the First Sea Lord of 1918 

When the war clouds broke. Admiral Wemyss 
was in the Mediterranean, and later was com- 
mander of the squadron landing troops at Galh- 
poli He was born in Wemyss Castle at Fife in 
1864, and entered the Navy in 1877. He has a 
list of titles that run up as rapidly as the treads 



192 We'll Stick to the Finish 

of stairs. He speaks French fluently, and this 
accounts for his success in co-operating with the 
French and Itahan fleets. The rapidity with which 
he had effected an efficient organization is already 
a glowing part of the records of the Admiralty. 

He first served as Second Sea Lord, having direc- 
tion of the strategetical work. The younger ele- 
ment in the navy centered their hopes on "Rosy" 
Wemyss, as his friends call his, and Sir Eric Geddes 
cast aside the veil of mystery and naval profes- 
sionalism and settled upon the silent Wemyss while 
retaining innate respect of the British toward the 
traditions of the Admiralty. The purpose was to 
convert sound ideas into practical and effective 
action. 

In temperament. Admiral Wemyss resembles 
General Grant — a silent organizer. Fortunately he 
was never much about the Admiralty office in 
times of peace, and is not harassed by precedents, 
but moves swiftly forward as war necessities 
appear. He studies his problems in the light of 
eternal Now, and is thoroughly informed on what 
Germans have been doing to strengthen their 
navy, perhaps adding twenty-five per cent from 
the Russian fleet. 

Is it to be wondered, after glimpsing some of I 

these personalities, that I fell under the spell of 



Copyright, 
Harris & 
Ewing 




IIOX. XKWTON 1). HAKKH, Sccrotar^uf War, U.S. A. 



Copyright, 
Harris tfc 
Ewing 




HON. JOSEPIIUS DANIELS, Secretary of Navy, U/S. A. 




LORD LEVERHULME 

The creator of Port Sunlight, England 



C'est la Guerre — It is the War 193 

the "Admiralty," or honored and respected an 
envelope or passport marked with its magic seal? 
The civic "First Lord," the naval "First Sea Lord," 
and the "Commander of the Grand Fleet" are 
the high places in the Admiralty. But it is the 
British people, in their unswerving loyalty and 
support, which constitute the Admiralty, and it is 
to them the world owes its debt for a fleet which 
has rendered unmeasured service to civilization 
in this war. 



XIX 



A VISIT TO THE GRAND FLEET 



THE Admiralty!'* That word is held in awe 
by the English people, and as an institution 
it represents Britain's supreme might on 
the seas. As I went down Trafalgar Square, 
where the statue of Nelson seemed to point the 
way, I unconsciously began whistling the refrain 
in Pinafore: "I Am the Monarch of the Seas," 
which was soon to lose all its flippant satire, and 
become portentous with meaning. 

Selecting one of the many entrances, I passed 
the grim walls of Whitehall, vibrant with memory. 
Crossing an old cobbled courtyard and entering an 
ancient building, I found myself confronted with 
the authority of the Admiralty. A document 
giving my name, where I slept last, the date of my 
birth and the complete details of the purpose of 
my visit, was signed and recorded. My card was 
sent flying up the starboard stairway. Through 
a dark corridor, lined with large iron pipes showing 

(194) 



C*est la Guerre — It is the War 195 

how the old headquarters had been made com- 
fortable by the installation of a heating apparatus 
since the days of Nelson, I made my way. 

In Room 62 my papers were censored and in 
Room 60 directly opposite was Sir Douglas 
Brownrigg, Chief Censor. He looked at me over 
his glasses and I knew from his manner that he 
had received a message from Admiral Sims and 
expected me. I noticed in passing Room 60 a 
hospitable placard written with a blue pencil 
which said: "Walk in, don't knock.'* It was so 
cordial that off came my hat. Across the hall on 
door 62 was another notice which smacked of the 
severity of the Admiralty. It read: "Knock 
before you enter and take off your hat." 

Sir Douglas Brownrigg is responsible for what 
passes to the public. His brisk manner suggested 
the newspaper worker, for such he was in the early 
days. Conferences were going on with naval 
and army oflScers, together with civilians, all 
seeking the magic stamp "Admiralty." While I 
was there, word was received of the blocking of 
the channel at Zeebrugge, by the sinking of the 
Vindictive. This report on a slip of pink copy 
paper was turned over to me, where in the terse 
language of the war records was related the 
simple details of the undertaking, together with the 



196 We'll Stick to the Finish 

account of the death of Commander Goodsall and 
his brave men, who had given their lives volun- 
tarily to stop the maw of the murderous submarine. 
This act of confidence has won other millions of 
enthusiasts for the Admiralty. 

My papers having been properly inspected, I 
stood before Sir Douglas while more pale purple 
was put on my passport. I, too, was now a part 
of the Admiralty. 

At the injunction of Admiral Sims, I placed 
myself entirely in their hands. "Proceed to King 
Cross Station Sunday night at 9:45 and await 
messenger," the order read. I went a-top a bus, 
having failed to kidnap a taxi. Circling around 
Hyde Park and other areas that are on the map, 
but still unknown to me, Kings Cross Station 
hove in sight. I had evidently missed the King's 
messenger, for I was late, so I proceeded to the 
train designated. 

The compartments were "full up" a half hour 
before starting time, so I dashed up and down the 
platform trying to find a landing and the King's 
messenger at the same time. When the little 
"toot, toot" was heard and the train almost 
silently started to glide away, I decided quickly on 
a compartment in the rear where five middies 
were bidding a fond farewell to some lasses. A 



C'est la Guerre — It is the War 197 

soft remark, by one of the girls who, with arched 
eyebrows, asked, "Are you not full up?" was 
meant for me. "But what boot it?" I said to myself 
with brave classic phrase — "I must get aboard." 
Intent on their farewell I slipped in and took a 
seat marked for them and where the five middies 
had already planted their boxes and luggage. 
We looked at each other — an eye to eye "just- 
get-acquainted-or-quit" challenge. 

From small suitcases the middies proceeded to 
bring out their luncheon. Consternation reigned 
when it was discovered they had no cigarettes. 
Here is where the incense and proffer of gold- 
tipped cigarettes cemented friendships. They 
offered me in return beef sandwiches and, I 
thought, "Well, here is one meat coupon saved 
anyhow." 

A King's messenger was discovered in the 
next compartment by the middies. Alone in his 
solitary authority I was tempted to knock — but 
I remembered the Admiralty sign. If you want 
gorgeous gayety, spend the night with middies 
returning from leave. Rollicking stories of their 
experiences aboard the good ship Indomitable 
were interrupted when the whistle screeched an- 
nouncement of our entrance into the ancient town 
of York. It was now 2 a. m. The blast of the 



198 We'll Stick to the Finish 

whistle was loud enough to wake the Archbishop 
of York, and the boys explained **here is where 
we meet the Duchess." They piled out on the 
platform and found the canteen for soldiers and 
sailors, but no one in civilian clothes could have 
even so much as a drop of tea. The Duchess was 
obdurate and it looked as though I must go hungry, 
but the middy boys motioned me to retire to the 
carriage where they brought me a dish of tea and 
brown war biscuit. As ginger ale and seltzer 
bottles were procured, the hazing spirit possessed 
the middies. The open window of the compart- 
ment of the King's messenger was too tempting. 
The spray brought a gruff monologue from the 
inside having to do with leaving windows open 
when it rained. 

"To sleep or not to sleep, that was the question." 
The Duchess and her tea chariot were left behind. 
One middy put his legs through the arm straps 
of a seat and hung up. Two others went aloft 
in the parcel rack and two more "took the deck," 
lying side by side with heads in opposite direction 
on the floor — one head projecting out into the cor- 
ridor in order to make the guard careful when he 
passed through. Then they put me to bed. At 
4 a. m. the train whirled into Newcastle-on-Tyne, 
and another "lady-in-waiting" with refreshments 



C'est la Guerre — It is the War 199 

was sighted. The women of England are doing 
splendid work day and night for soldiers and 
sailors. At every railway junction where troops 
stop, there are women with tea and cakes. Some 
pieces of the bread, the middies remarked, would 
make good paving blocks. 

In the early morning we passed the mammoth 
shipbuilding plant at Newcastle. The airdrome 
near Edinburgh was also sighted near dawn and 
when the towers of Holyrood Castle appeared, I 
knew we were in the land of Sir Walter Scott, for 
it was Waverly Station. A Scotch breakfast, oat- 
meal, of course, was provided, but there was no 
sugar, no cream. '*Try a wee bit more of salt 
and you'll na miss it," said the Scotch waitress 
sympathetically . 

On the bulletin board at North British Hotel my 
name was posted. The Admiralty had evidently 
shadowed me. The telegram which was handed 
me was opened with misgivings that I possibly 
might be recalled. The message read: "Proceed 
to Waverly Station at 10:15, where an American 
oflBcer will meet you." I remembered Admiral 
Sims' injunction and obeyed. 

In the Scotch mist of the morning, I drove out 
to call on some members of the Rotary, who had 
arranged a dinner at the Conservative Club that 



200 We'll Stick to the Finish 

night. Then I drove to Morningside Circle to 
see the sister of my friend, Mr. Andrew Adie of 
Boston, who had sailed from here as a young man 
many years ago to win fame and fortune in the 
new world. He had achieved both and became 
one of the patriotic American leaders, doing much 
for the great cause. The Braid hills, the country 
of Robert Louis Stevenson, never looked more 
beautiful than in the morning mist, regal in the 
glory of the purple heather. I 

I rang the bell. There was no response. The 
awning was drawn over the door. Later I learned 
that the sister at that moment was out under the ; 

mournful trees, burying her son, who, wounded in | 

France, had come home to be cared for by the 
sacred hands of motherhood. Here I was in heart 
touch with the houses of mourning which dotted 
the fair land of Robert Burns. True to the tradi- 
tions of Robert Bruce, Scotish bravery ever re- 
mains tried and true, and weighed in the balance 
is not found wanting. 

On past the Church of John Knox, through 
Princess Street and the statue of Sir Walter Scott. 
What a change from the old tourist days to the 
present. For if any people have felt the war 
seriously and worked effectively, they come from 
this, the land of Sir Douglas Haig. 



C'est la Guerre — It is the War 201 

Across the fertile fields of Scotland, the train 
glided smoothly on. One does not wonder that 
the Scotchman loves his heather-covered land. 
The verdure is matchless. Alighting at Dalmery 
I was met by an American naval officer who 
escorted me down the long hill to Queen's Ferry. 
Overhead were the sweeping arches of the great 
Tay Bridge. Hydroplanes were swooping down. 
Everything else harked back to the past, even the 
old stones of the quay were mossed with the 
tides of centuries. Here it was that Margaret, 
patron saint of Scotland, used to cross with the 
King when he went to war. 

Now we are off for the Grand Fleet! Was it 
true that my dream was at last to be realized? 

When so many glowing tributes have been 
written and spoken concerning the glory of Great 
Britain, France, America and Italy on the fields 
of battle, when the press is full of the stirring 
details of the achievements of the Allied armies on 
the Flanders front, may it not be well to here ask 
a question? Why is it that Germany has not 
succeeded in grinding into the cratered dust the 
forces of the Allied armies? Out there ahead of 
me in a great battle line, seventy-six miles in 
length, I saw the answer — and that answer is the 
Grand Fleet. Even if the great push had reached 



202 We'll Stick to the Finish 

the channel ports and Paris had been taken, 
there would still be left the Grand Fleet, the iron 
collar around the neck of Germany to strangle her 
and drag her down to sure defeat. 

Without the supreme fleet not a soldier of 
Great Britain, France or America would be stand- 
ing on the blood-soaked fields of Flanders today. 
It is to this long line of sea forces with its stupend- 
ous combination of gun power and speed that 
credit must be given for the "containing" of the 
German fleet at Kiel, and for freedom from enemy 
raiders on the seas. 

I was taken directly to Captain John Hughes 
who knows how to command a battleship to the 
last detail. How homelike it was to be on a 
United States battleship, though in foreign waters! 
At luncheon, I sat down for the first time since 
leaving America to a real beefsteak, thick, juicy 
and smothered in onions. Real butter and white 
bread, too! A Philippine steward "stood by" and 
encored with another steak. Just at that moment, 
to me, at least, the steak, the appetite and the 
Grand Fleet were of equal proportions. The New 
York is the flagship of Admiral Rodman, the sixth 
division of the Grand Fleet, merged in the Grand 
Fleet, yet still having the same identity as when 
flagship of the ninth division of the Atlantic Fleet. 



C'est la Guerre— It is the War 203 

Admiral Rodman is one of the real sea dogs of 
the Navy. He is thoroughly businesslike in the 
management of the complicated details of his task. 

Once inside his quarters, there was the atmos- 
phere of home and business. Books, magazines 
and papers were lying on the table, while there 
were maps and more maps everywhere. The 
Admiral has not left the ship except for a period 
of four hours for more than six months. With a 
twinkle in his eyes he said: *'We're always ready, 
and all are working together with a will." 

Every British and American ship is primed to go 
into action at the pressing of a button. In the 
flash of an eye the engines can start, the battle 
line formed at the order ''proceed to sea." 

The co-operation of British and American 
fleets in the present war is without a parallel in 
history. On the one hand the great British Navy 
has given to the Americans its secret codes, ciphers, 
and the naval tradition of centuries. On the other, 
the American Navy has put all its resources at 
the disposal of the British. Even at the dinner 
table there was evidence of the new comradeship 
of the seas. The two fleets have been co-ordi- 
nated and consolidated as one. Admiral Sims in 
inaugurating this policy of ofi^ering our navy 
unreservedly to the British fleet forecasted a new 



204 We'll Stick to the Finish 

world policy after the war. All national, racial 
and traditional pride is laid aside in the one 
great purpose of winning the war. 

Though there were fifteen hundred men aboard 
the battleship New York, never in all these 
months, notwithstanding the limited area of their 
movements, was there a dull moment. 

The ship was a miniature city afloat. The 
machine and repair shops constituted an industrial 
section. Here activities were keyed to war pitch. 
Even the corner grocery was there, reminding me 
of "Beany Brown's emporium" with its familiar 
odors, of edibles, compassed only by the table of 
contents in a Sears-Roebuck catalog. Though 
all essentials are amply provided for in the mess, 
the habit of shopping and indulging individual 
taste is irresistible. It affords a change, and 
gathers change. 

And here was the drug store, the bakery, the 
cobbler shop, even the barber shop with seven 
chairs shooting out perfumed customers, with the 
regularity of the clock-tick. 

The residential section consisted of hammocks, 
stowed away like folding beds, snug sleeping 
apartments. The oflScers' quarters were the 
* 'houses on the terrace." Along the gangways 
were sailor lads from every state and territory in 



C'est la Guerre — It is the War 205 

the Union. They were either chatting, studying, 
reading, or, yes, mothers, sprawled at full length 
on the deck with all the luxurious abandon of 
care-free boys on the green sward of a playground. 
And, yes, fathers; some were making ready for a 
real frolic ashore such as you enjoyed in your day. 

Strangely enough, sooner or later, in the minor 
exigencies of ship-life, every man finds, in ad- 
dition to his regular duties, opportunity to exer- 
cise the peculiar knack with which he is gifted. If 
any one of the five pianolas, or numerous grapho- 
phones, which are going most of the time, remind- 
ing one of a Coney Island colony, is out of order, 
there is always the jack-of -all-trades to keep the 
show moving. 

It was field day when I was aboard. That means 
cleaning day. Dirt was mercilessly pursued in 
every nook and cranny. Scrub and paint brushes 
flourished. From hold to topmast, she was a 
floating "spotless town." Ah! but the guns, they 
shone like polished mirrors. Gunners were patting 
them affectionately, and in their faces I could 
read the one all-absorbing wish: "If I only had 
a chance!" God pity the German fleet if they do! 

A British Admiral dropped in to pay his respects. 
After his return, in a note he paid this tribute 
to the battleship New York: "May I express 



206 We'll Stick to the Finish 

my immense admiration for the condition of your 
ship. I never saw anything to touch her in all my 
twenty-five years at sea. She is a picture." 

Shore leave means a round of the "ancient and 
honorable game" of golf in its native heath. Ad- 
miral and seaman alike chase the pill. But the 
intricate game is a bit too slow for the average 
seaman, and the national pastime of baseball 
threatens even the traditional sport of the Scots. 
It is more strenuous and makes swifter diversion 
with the brief moments of shore leave. 

Dinner was a memorable moment. The Admiral, 
at the head of the table, surrounded by his staff 
of both British and American officers, was like a 
father at home talking with his boys. The doings 
of the day were gone over, especially the scouting 
operations of the airplanes in the North Sea. One 
thought is always uppermost — the moment! What 
if the "moment" to get under way should come 
while I was aboard? No such luck! I arose from 
that table with a new sense of the perfected plans 
of the Admiralty and Admiral Sims. 

Just at this time a sheaf of "wireless" was 
brought in and I had opportunity to see the 
cryptic vernacular of an intercepted message with 
its flavor of mystery, equal to a stirring chapter 
in a detective story. It read: 



Cest la Guerre — It is the War 207 

"Will arrive within gunshot at 1,100; request 
permission to enter harbour. 0810.'* 

The wording indicated an English operator for 
the letter U appeared in harbor. The variance 
in spelling will be another brigading operation in 
the dictionaries. 

As I left ship for launch, I could not resist 
saluting in unison with the oflScers, as the sailors 
stood at attention. Thiis is permissible for a 
civilian, providing it is accompanied with the 
familiar "hello" or other vocal salutation. 

In the gathering twilight, the Admiral's launch 
began its bobbing course over the choppy sea. 
I stood astern, with coat tails flying, waving fare- 
well to the good ship and its men. Our way shaped 
through the lanes of the Grand Fleet. In the 
distance was the great Tay Bridge. As in a pro- 
scenium box, I looked out on the greatest naval 
scene in history. A ship is always a picture, 
whether square-rigged frigate or modern dread- 
naught. What would Nelson and Paul Jones have 
thought of this Armada? The combined naval 
achievements of all the history of two great 
nations were here united in a common cause. 
There was the Queen Elizabeth, flagship of Admiral 
Beatty, there also, the Xion, which had carried 
his flag into the battle of Jutland. There were 



208 



We'll Stick to the Finish 



the hush ships looking all the more mysterious 
in the gathering darkness. The dark hulks of 
an endless line were silhouetted against the red 
horizon. 

Long after the curtain of the night shut out the 
scene, was the reassurance that here was repre- 
sented, not only the bulwark of defense which had 
safeguarded the past, but carried the prophecy 
of a victorious future. 




HON. W. (i. SIIARl'K 

American Ambassador to iM-ance 



15 




I 



Copyright by Paul Thompson 

HON. WALTER HINES PAGE 

American Ambassador to the Court of St. James 



XX 

WITH THE AMERICAN DESTROYERS 
THE DOOM OF THE SUBMARINES 

OUEENSTOWN is strangely linked with 
the memories of the tragedy of the Lusi- 
tania. In the mirrored waters I seemed to 
see the forms of little children and helpless women, 
together with the mangled shapes of men — 
civilians and sailors alike — as they tossed on the 
unresting wave. How appropriate that here, in 
this cemetery of the sea, a savior of hope should 
be born — prophetic of the day when the race shall 
be saved from an assassin foe. No wonder I 
recalled the scene, for some of my friends were 
there — in their unfathomed graves. 

The doors of Queenstown are unlocked only 
by an Admiralty pass. Here the destroyer flo- 
tillas and depth bombs have come to sound the 
death knell of the submarine. At Hollyhead 
Wharf, it was necessary to secure the stamp of 
the alien officer. Amid yawns and growls were 
throngs waiting hours after midnight for the 

(20») 



^10 We'll Stick to the Finish 

**Irish Mail." Once at sea there was a rush 
for the dining saloon where ham and meats 
could be secured. War rations did not prevail 
in Ireland. Regulations were as unpopular as 
conscription. 

The swift little steamer gayly zig-zagged over 
the Irish Sea that night, and stretched out on 
seats and bunks were the passengers in blissful 
forgetfulness of sleep. The early morning found 
us at Kingston — the harbor of Dublin. There 
was a real emerald hue to the Irish landscape that 
morning and little evidence of war. Some young 
lads appeared wearing defiant badges inscribed 
"No Conscription." Dublin was seething with 
Sinn Feiners' agitation. Some of the leaders had 
been arrested the night previous, charged with 
participating in German plots. 

Lord French's proclamation to win the dis- 
senting Irish to the Allies' cause was the headline 
in the papers and the talk of every one that 
morning. 

The long journey from Dublin to Queenstown 
gave me time to observe travelers in Ireland. 
The trains move slowly, irregularly, and deliber- 
ately. Nearly everyone I talked with spoke of 
some friend in America, and hours whiled away 
explaining how it was I lived in Boston and didn't 



C'est la Guerre — It is the War 211 

chance to know "the boy" or "friend" living in 
cities a thousand miles away. 

The yellow furze hedges were never more 
glorious than on this beautiful May day, outlining 
as they did, the tiny triangular farms. Soldiers 
in khaki were given tea at Limerick Junction. 
Some of them from far-off Australia, New Zealand, 
and South Africa, were on leave to visit relatives, 
many of whom they had never seen. Cork was 
thriving with war activities. The long list of 
my friends in America who hailed from Cork 
passed in review, and strangely enough my naval 
friend bobbed up. Queenstown is only a few 
miles down the River Lee, and is counted the 
jumping-off place. 

The harbor was dotted with destroyers, moored 
in groups of four to a buoy, like dogs on a leash. 
At the Naval Wharf was the welcome sight of 
American sailors. Captain Pringle was aboard 
the Melville y one of two which serve as "mother 
ships" for the destroyer flotilla. He is the chief 
of staff of Admiral Sims' destroyer flotilla, and in 
command. Here again was an exemplification of 
the cordial co-ordination of American and British 
naval officers and men. The supply ships are 
great floating machine shops, and are ready for 
any emergency. The first story told me was of 



212 We'll Stick to the Finish 

two destroyers which had met accident. One 
had the stern blown off by a depth bomb, while 
the other had its bow demolished in a collision. 
The two vessels were towed in. The conserved 
stern of one was joined to the bow of the other. 
The names were hyphenated and by matrimonic 
machinery the twain were one henceforth. 

A replica in miniature of the torpedo station at 
Newport has been erected. Lieutenant Moses of 
Newport is here in person and in charge. Shark- 
like torpedoes are tested under hydraulic pressure, 
each one costing $7,000 apiece. "Expensive 
ammunition," I remarked. "Yes," said a sailor, 
"but it counts when opportunity offers." 

Commander Carpenter of the Fanning^ who 
made the capture of a submarine, taught me the 
nautical step, and I was able to trip up the gang- 
way lightly, this time, without stumbling. Wire- 
less naval dispatches came in thick and fast. One 
of these reports brought the news of a certain ship 
never known to make over nine knots. "Chased 
by a submarine," it read, "making eleven knots." 

"Nothing like a submarine to speed 'em up," 
said the captain. 

Ashore and everywhere the quiver of the chase 
animates the sailors. They were all eager to go 
to sea and have their chance at the subs. It 



C'est la Guerre — It is the War 213 

mattered not whether they were under a British 
or American commander. Their one desire was to 
get 'em. Destroyers returning from convoy duty 
come alongside the supply ships for repairs and 
supplies, and are off in a twinkling. The Broad- 
way base for the destroyers are the supply ships 
Dixie and Melville, where men work and bands 
play. The cabins are business offices, with a big 
B. The desks of the yeomen stenographers and 
clerks are all in ship-shape, many working long after 
hours, if necessary, to get a ship off. They never 
know when a rush of work is coming, and supplies 
are always ready. It would have done Admiral 
McGowan's heart good to have heard the salvos 
of praise from the sailors when the transports 
arrive. They pay tribute to the efficiency of the 
Bureau of Supplies and Accounts, "Sanda Court,*' 
at Washington. 

The destroyers are always busy, steaming from 
five to seven thousand miles a month, and being 
sometimes twenty-one days at sea, never daunted 
by wind or weather. There is a certain longitude 
and latitude where the convoys going out are 
taken and the convoys coming in are met. Officers 
insist that "a monument should be erected at 
this fixed spot in the motionless sea" after the 
war. 



214 We'll Stick to the Finish 

The destroyers, which were an evolution from 
the torpedo boat, have already many scalps 
dangling from their sides. These clipper-like crafts 
remind one of greyhounds ever ready for the chase. 

How can a landsman best describe his feelings 
on board a destroyer at sea.'* He hangs on with 
both arms, and those who have boasted of never 
knowing the ills of seasickness are ruthlessly 
floored. It was planned for me to take a cruise 
of four days. The spectacle of seeing myself 
growing green in the mirror of the deep, and the 
experience of salt water splashed into my soup, 
with ocean spray for pepper and salt on my food, 
was not a palatable prospect. 

Captain McCandless of the Caldwell was con- 
siderate when I proved that at least I had one 
sea-leg. These crafts are a long, narrow shell of 
thin steel, exceeding the speed of an ocean liner 
and equalling that of an automobile. Everything 
is stowed away snugly, every inch of space being 
utilized. 

The captain and crew never take off their clothes 
during a cruise. There is very little sleep aboard. 
The eagle eyes of the destroyers, always hunting 
and watching, are the protection of the convoys. 
The peculiar excitement on board appeals to 
dauntless American sailors keen for adventure. 



C'est la Guerre — It is the War 915 

As each new ship is completed in the United 
States, a crew of twenty-five officers and men 
who have had experience at the Queenstown base, 
are detailed to bring the new ship over. The 
ambition of young naval officers is to command a 
destroyer and get just one chance at a submarine. 
The depth bombs are carried on the stern of a 
destroyer. They look like humble and plebeian 
galvanized ash cans. They are timed in much the 
same fashion as the old teeter board works. Once 
off, the depth bomb knows neither friend nor foe. 
The ship must keep moving and get away before 
it explodes or the stern is endangered. On the aft 
deck of the boat are howitzer guns, which look as 
harmless as a joint of sewer pipe, though capable 
of throwing depth bombs one hundred and twenty 
feet to port or starboard. The explosive sub- 
stance is TNT. The explosion of the bomb is 
caused by the pressure of water at a certain depth. 
When one of these bombs explode, stones and sea 
mud from the bottom of the channel are brought 
up from a depth of two hundred feet and shot into 
the air with water like a geyser. This gives an 
idea of the power of these innocent-looking cans. 
The shock from one of these explosions is felt by 
ocean liners a half mile distant, causing them to 
shiver from bow to stern. The concussion has the 



216 We'll Stick to the Finish 

intensified sound of boys crashing two stones 
together under water. 

In the fox hunt for submarines, two destroyers 
go out abreast and begin spiral maneuvers, one 
going to the right and the other to the left, each 
dropping depth bombs, making it impossible for 
a submarine to live in the patterned area covered. 
Submarines must keep going in deep water. They 
cannot stop while submerged unless the water is 
shallow, and then they lie on the bottom. 

It is something of a tussle for a stout man to go 
through the hatchway of a submarine, like the 
"lemon squeezer" at Lost River in the White 
Mountains. When submarines were constructed, 
two-hundred-pounders were not considered. Climb- 
ing down the pole with spiral steps, I found that 
my legs were rather too thick to twine themselves 
gracefully. I would make a poor modern edition 
of Jules Verne's "Twenty Thousand Leagues under 
the Sea." 

The machinery of a submarine is most intricate. 
Here were the tubes where the torpedoes were 
projected; there the listening devices, while a 
myriad of levers and countless wheels were every- 
where. Never shall I forget the uncanny feeling 
when, for the first time, I looked into the rubbet- 
lined tube and realized it was a periscope. It 



Cest la Guerre — It is the War 217 

was like looking into the hood of a reflex camera. 
Ships at a distance, men on the ships, expressions 
on their faces, even to the bat of an eyelash, were 
clearly outlined. The periscope moves up and 
down and around like the All-Seeing Eye. 

The submarine is now being used in the chase 
against the submarine on the Irish coast. Greatest 
caution must be exercised to distinguish British, 
American and German submarines, for all are 
working in the same zone. A system of signals 
has been devised which enables friendly submarines 
to detect not only each other, but to communicate 
with the destroyers on the surface of the sea. 

At the Naval Men's Club at Queenstown, the 
first establishment of its kind, British and American 
officers and sailors fraternize and enjoy hours of 
leave together. The friendly odor of American 
ham and eggs blends with British mutton. 

This clubhouse is located on the sea wall and 
opens hospitable doors for all sailors on shore 
leave and meets the need for rest and entertain- 
ment. Generous-hearted Americans in London 
provided this club, which now has an international 
fame. An old gymnasium has been converted into 
an Assembly Hall where every night moving pic- 
tures and other entertainments are furnished. 

It was Saturday evening when I was there. 



218 We'll Stick to the Finish 

The hall was filled to overflowing, and the orchestra 
from the Melville was making the occasion merry 
with ragtime and patriotic airs. A vaudeville 
performance was in process, consisting of stunts 
by seamen who were singers, elocutionists, lariat- 
throwers, monologists, and band soloists. These 
seemed equal to any emergency. Artists and 
audience created a free-for-all atmosphere. 

While enjoying a jolly evening, intermission 
approached. My joy came to a sudden end! 
Captain Pringle commanded me to "proceed to 
the stage" and make a speech. A scene showing 
the skyline of New York was flashed before the 
footlights, bringing a volley of applause from the 
boys, who broke out in the song "Goodbye, 
Broadway." The words of other songs were thrown 
on the screen and a regular songfest started. 

The faces of the sailors in that auditorium would 
have made a reassuring picture to the fathers 
and mothers at home. The boys were happy, 
self-reliant and manly. 

When my spiel was ended and they tried to go 
on with the show, the cheering did not cease. All 
over the hall there was a chorus, "To hell with 
the show, get the guy going again." They did 
not know who I was, but they knew I was some- 
body from home and who had seen and known 



C^est la Guerre — It is the War 219 

the boys in khaki. When tribute was paid to the 
American soldiers of the army in France and to 
Mother Brittania calling the lusty sons of the 
West, there was a shout that shook the rafters. 

It was in a jaunting car that Captain Pringle 
took me to pay respects to Admiral Bay ley at the 
headquarters on the hill, which commanded a 
beautiful outlook of the harbor. Why a jaunting 
car was ever made, I do not know! You sit side- 
wise and just jolt. Why the little horse did not 
go up in the air when I listed to the left I cannot 
understand, but he seemed to be an expert in 
balancing things. Ireland would not be Ireland 
without its jaunting car and its joviality. 

As I entered headquarters, Admiral Bayley, 
seated at his desk and smoking his pipe, was 
issuing orders, directing the movement of ships 
far at sea. When he had finished, he showed me 
an Englishman's love for his garden. Even while 
engaged in this diversion, dispatches were still 
coming to him. His orders, issued in a brusque 
manner, were simple and direct, not capable of 
misunderstanding, for Admiral Bayley is a disci- 
plinarian. American sailors have learned to love 
him, for he is as just as he is severe. 

Wherever you stop overnight, you must report 
to the police when you go in and when you go out. 



220 We'll Stick to the Finish 

Every hotel register gives an account of those 
enrolled, and the police records and hotel registers 
must correspond. Down the hill is the constable's 
office, and to it I must go if I wanted to leave. 
The street is called "Pack of Cards," the houses 
on one side looking like an abandoned poker deck. 
The constable's office was in a barn, one flight up, 
and adorned with ancient pistols, to reach which 
you had to go through the barn where you were 
expected to show the passport picture album 
of yourself. 

"Mornin' to you. You're a handsomer man than 
the last rogue we had," he said in a rich Irish 
brogue. 

At the hotel, before leaving, the little colleen 
with black hair and blue eyes presented me with 
some post cards. When I offered money she 
refused, saying: 

"Just in memory of a boy I know over there." 

She cautioned me not to send any showing 
Queenstown Harbor, "for the Admiralty, you 
know," she whispered, "wouldn't allow it," mean- 
ing, of course, they were under the censor's ban. 
When in Ireland I thought of my many good Irish 
friends overseas and on a rolling launch I wrote 
some of them a postcard, giving their family 
genealogy insofar as I could fancy it from the 



C*est la Guerre — It is the War 221 

signs over the shops. In obtaining this information 
I found my own tongue served me well in Ireland. 

American sailors exercise a proper diplomatic 
restraint and show a becoming modesty in talking 
about the things our country is doing in the war. 
In Queenstown civic officials and civilians told 
me they had never seen any action on the part 
of an American sailor which was not becoming 
a gentleman and true sailor. 

Driving over the hills from Cork, I accepted 
the invitation of the American naval officers to 
go with them to kiss the Blarney Stone. In a 
jaunting car, two on a side, the driver "bechune** 
times cracking his whip and regaling us with tra- 
ditions, we arrived at ancient Cork. In the dis- 
tance and beyond the winding River Lee loomed 
the ruined towers of Blarney Castle. 

As we entered the charmed precincts, crossing 
a clear running brook, a crippled soldier took the 
shilling of admittance. Under the trees of the 
park the young people of Blarney were indulging 
in a real Irish dance. Pipers were playing the 
tune and the dancers whirled round and round, 
hopping as in a schottische, the Limerick waltz. 
On we passed to the castle, the refrain "Oh, The 
Days of the Kerry Dance" singing itself in my 
mind. Here we climbed the granite stairway, not 



222 We'll Stick to the Finish 

only worn smooth by thousands of feet, but the 
sides worn by the hands of those groping their 
way up to the old tower. 

In an old baronial dining hall a giant tree was 
growing. Reaching the parapet of the castle, the 
naval officers insisted that I follow them in kissing 
the Blarney Stone. What wonder that several 
coquettish lasses paused to see the fat American 
tipped upside down and held by his legs while 
stretched out over the precipice of the wall as he 
kissed the Blarney Stone. Apprehensively look- 
ing down several hundred feet below, I wondered 
if they would hold me fast, but I gave the Blarney 
Stone a rousing smack. 

With the Blarney kiss still moist on my lips, 
I found that complimentary phrases dripped like 
honey dew from my lips. 

Coming down from Blarney Castle, we stopped 
the jaunting car to look at the crevices, now over- 
grown with the moss and vegetation of centuries. 
The lads and lassies had deserted the shadow of 
the trees for the luxury of the baronial hall, and 
there again it was "on with the dance." As I 
stood watching them, one of the young naval 
officers approached, having in his eyes a look which 
indicated that he had made a discovery. **You 
gay deceiver," he said, pointing a finger at me, 



C'est la Guerre — It is the War 



"you have been here before. We know now why 
you love to talk, and since you have kissed the 
Blarney Stone again, come — make us a speech." 

Then from the balustrade, in a deep voice, he 
called to the people, saying: "Ladies and gentle- 
men, we have in our midst a distinguished orator 
from the United States of America." 

The pipers ceased playing and the dancers 
became attentive. In their eyes was an appeal 
I could not resist. I spoke to them in the old 
banquet hall, giving a resume of our American 
dances, the two-step, fox-trot, bunny hug, too 
much mustard, kitchen sink and other dances 
peculiar to American life. They laughed and 
roared. 

I could not leave them without a serious touch. 
I told them that in the constellation of stars on 
the service flags in the homes of America, the sons 
of Erin were represented in the great fight for world 
democracy. 

On my return to Dublin I talked with some of 
the leaders of the Sinn Fein, and also of the 
Nationalists' party. I heard their story. As I 
came away I could but feel that antipathy to 
Britain had, for the moment, clouded their vision 
as to the purpose of the Allies, and blinded them 
even to the interests of Ireland, and in questioning 



224 We'll Stick to the Finish 

the good faith and purpose of America in the war 
might eventually strike at the root of sympathy 
of one of her best friends. 

Stowed away among the snoring soldiers in the 
channel steamer that night, I lay half dreaming. 
With the vision of Queenstown — that base of 
humming activity — correlated and devoted to the 
Allied cause — ^I could not conceive of the rest of 
Ireland, especially with the spirit of Redmond's 
son and the valorous Irish who had already fallen 
in Flanders, hesitating to disregard all other 
considerations in responding unreservedly to the 
cause of free peoples. 




Copyriahl by U udti wuud dc LmlfTwoitil 

HON. THOMAS NKLSON I»A(;K 
American Ambassador to Italv 



Hot Comforts for the Men in the Trenches 

MISS GLADYS STOREY'S FUND 

Fourth Year. Registered under the WAR CHARITIES ACT 




Map showing the war area over which the Fund has extended comfort to hundreds 
of thousands of troops since 1914, including Canadian, Australian, New Zealand and 
Newfoundland contingents, and the French and Belgian soldiers in the trenches. 



XXI 

LORD LEVERHULME AND THE 
SIX-HOUR DAY 

FOR years I had known Lord Leverhulme 
through the medium of friendly corre- 
spondence. Our letters had passed back 
and forth between England and America. Ideas 
on business and educational problems had been 
exchanged, and yet we had never met. I dropped 
into his oflSce at 11 Haymarket, London, and found 
the sort of person I expected to meet — a great 
business leader of Great Britain. Lord Lever- 
hulme is a rather small man, with pompadour, iron- 
gray hair, keen gray eyes and an irresistible smile. 
The query in both of our minds was, "Well, what 
do you think of me?" It was answered as our eyes 
met and the usual introductory phrases were 
unnecessary. We began where our correspondence 
left off. 

He wears the same kind of white square derby 
hat, such as he began buying as a young man from 
the hatter of his birthplace, in Bolton. The bag 

(226) 



226 We'll Stick to the Finish 

in which he carries his carefully-sorted letters has 
been his traveling companion for forty years. 
Handle after handle has been worn off, but the 
portmanteau remains. 

Five minutes' conversation with Lord Lever- 
hulme covers a wide range of subjects. To him 
the minutes of the day are made to count, whether 
given to social or business engagements. That 
afternoon he was to speak at Leighton House on 
Holland Park Road, Kensington. 

This fine old English mansion was the home and 
studio of Lord Leighton. It remains as he left it. 
Its vast art collection is preserved as a memorial 
to the artist by The Leighton House Society, and 
used for the promotion of art, music and literature. 

Modestly ignoring his afternoon address, which 
was the only feature of the occasion. Lord Lever- 
hulme said: 'T think you will at least find the 
Leighton House interesting." 

At Leighton House a cultured English audience 
had assembled to hear Lord Leverhulme on 
"Present-Day Ideals, Personal and National." A 
delightful English custom was the aftermath, when 
tea was served and a discussion followed which 
would have graced the Victorian Age. It was a 
touch of English life I had not seen, blending the 
charm of the social and literary life of the old world. 



Cest la Guerre — It is the War 227 

Over the teacups I met Miss Gladys Storey, 
who originated the fund to provide "Hot Com- 
forts for the Men in the Trenches." These 
"comforts" include Bovril, condensed soups and 
other dainties not found in the regular rations. 
The letters she has received from Field Marshal 
Sir Douglas Haig, Lord French, General Sir Henry 
Rawlinson and French commanders indicate the 
value and appreciation of the work. Miss Storey 
is a daughter of a famous artist, who was a mem- 
ber of the Royal Academy. She was on the stage 
prior to the war, but now gives her whole time to 
this work. 

On the following day an afternoon train took 
us to Cheshire, where we motored to Thornton 
Manor. The drive, through the ancient city of 
Chester, and over roads once trod by the legions 
of Caesar, was replete with interest. The quiet 
dignity of English country life was in strange 
contrast to the war-wrecked scenes of a few 
days previous. I sensed the reason why every 
Englishman has a vision of a country home. The 
British Isles have become a veritable garden spot, 
nursed by centuries of care-taking. Even in the 
darkness I felt intuitively the presence of flowers 
along the wayside. 

The big open fireplace was sending out its 



228 We'll Stick to the Finish 

cheery light as we sat and talked the evening 
hours away. Then a bit of Lancashire cheese and 
to bed, with sweet dreams in the Manor House. 

In the morning, after a breakfast of shrimps, 
bareheaded, but fully gloved— English custom — 
we enjoyed a walk in the garden, still briskly dis- 
cussing random subjects, ranging from ancient 
philosophy or latest detail of war, to modern 
methods of living. 

One of Lord Leverhulme's hobbies is the hours 
of labor. "I believe in only six hours' labor," he 
said. "I am an advocate of a six-hour day. 
Shorter hours of labor, running two shifts of six 
and a half hours each, with a half hour for meals, 
is the ideal working day. It will meet the one 
great problem after the war. Decrease the hours 
of labor, increase production and extend markets 
— ^that is the business world's problem." 

"That seems paradoxical," I ventured. 

"Not at all," he responded. "By decreasing 
the hours of labor you relieve fatigue of the 
workers and can speed up machinery. Two shifts 
in daylight, bringing twelve hours of production 
without overtime, will increase production without 
increased overhead expense. This increased pro- 
duction naturally brings about an expansion of 
markets." 



C'est la Guerre — It is the War 



There is keenness in Lord Leverhulme's logic. 
As one of the great employers of labor in England, 
his ideas carry weight. 

We paused to view the vast stretch of green 
running out to the Welsh Mountains, then on to 
the River Dee and down to the sea. 

"Six hours a day," he continued as we resumed 
our walk, "would mean that young men and girls 
could work in shops, offices and factories, and at 
the same time continue their course of education. 
It would do away with night schools. Education 
would go hand in hand with work. It would not 
induce idleness outside the six working hours; it 
would give opportunity to grow and develop. It 
would mean more time for military training and 
drill. It would take away the dull gray monotony 
of labor and do away with over-strain — the big 
waster of efficiency." 

"Are you limiting all labor to six hours a day?" 
I ventured. 

"Yes, six hours a day at employment, leaving 
ten to twelve hours for education and recreation, 
to change the trend of thought." 

Not far away were the chimneys of Port Sun- 
light, where, in 1886, Lord Leverhulme, then 
William Hesketh Lever, began to carry out his 
vision of ideal conditions for workmen. The 



230 We*ll Stick to the Finish 

library, auditorium, plant and the surroundings 
indicate a crystallization of ideas and practical 
plans, for Lord Leverhulme is first of all a builder. 
He makes the waste places blossom with beauty 
and productivity. It was my privilege here to 
address three thousand girls at luncheon, and 
never was there a brighter or more wide-awake 
audience. It did my heart good just to talk to 
these earnest, sincere English lasses, who have 
been swept by the war into the tide of industry. 
Their spirit was matchless. 

At the meeting of the staff and managers of the 
Port Sunlight Works, Lord Leverhulme presided. 
I could understand then the reason for his busi- 
ness success which stands out so conspicuously in 
the annals of Britain's industrial development. 
He thinks, feels and acts. Problems are as clear 
before his vision as before a blaze of light. His 
mind works with mathematical precision. One of 
his employees told of his drawing offhand with a 
lead pencil a diagram of land in almost exact pro- 
portions, as subsequently proved by the surveyed 
measurements. 

Despite his high honors as member of the House 
of Lords, member of Parliament and high sher- 
iff of Lancaster, Lord Leverhulme remains an 
exponent of intensified democracy. He enjoys 



C'est la Guerre— It is the War 231 

everything he does, particularly his avocation. 
Even his hobby for collecting furniture of different 
periods, books and paintings, seems the utihzation 
of any slack rope in his daily activities. 

He loves a joke or good story, and delights in the 
American variety. He has traveled widely, and 
his business experience has extended to all parts 
of the world. He has a warm spot in his heart for 
the United States, where he has large business 
interests. It was while on a voyage to x\merica in 
1890 that he planned the 'Tort Sunlight" of today 
and he came back with his plans consummated 
to every detail. 

As a leader in the industrial life of Great Britain, 
Lord Leverhulme has fearlessly looked to the 
future of capital and labor. "Following the war, 
industry will be strained to meet the demand 
for manufactured goods, and now is the time to 
get ready for the inevitable adjustment that must 
come with the demobilizing of large armies." 

He has little patience with a nation that will 
decry or underestimate its own natural advan- 
tages, and he points out that a peace cabinet 
composed of expert business men is as necessary 
as a war cabinet. 

Lord Leverhulme is an educational enthusiast. 
"We must push education to the limit," said 



232 



We*ll Stick to the Finish 



this sterling little man who had struggled for an 
education. "We cannot depend on evening classes 
and expect overworked and wearied brains to be 
attracted to educational advantages." 

Port Sunlight has been built up by making 
employees co-partners. This gives a mutual inter- 
est in the work and eliminates the benumbing 
effect of a wage system. Lord Leverhulme does 
not think any workman should be sentenced to 
toil for wages without direct interest in profits 
earned. 

"And I have not much patience with the Ca' 
Canny shirkers and slackers, either," said he. 
"Piece work has been damned because some em- 
ployers, after having ascertained the speed limits 
of the efficient workmen, have cut down the piece 
rates proportionately, contrary to the very system 
on which an employer builds his business. I 
believe in applying the good old rule — whatever 
we put into business or life we can take out 
and no more. The employer should apply the 
same principles to his workers that he applies to 
building up his own business." 

"American trade unionism has disavowed the 
co-partnership idea," I suggested. 

"Naturally," he quickly returned, "it is due to 
the fear that co-partnership might result in their 



C*est la Guerre— It is the War 233 

elimination. But they will see the advantage in 
due time." 

"I do not believe," he continued, "in the logic 
of throwing the lion a small bit of meat to palliate 
his appetite. He will eat the small piece and 
attack the human sacrifice in the Coliseum as 
well. Too little meat leaves the Christian martyr 
in as much peril as before the lion is fed. 

"Profits will vary in different institutions, and 
it will mean some jobs will pay better than others. 
It has always been so. Only this much is sure, 
the lazy loafer, be he employer or employee, who 
has not earned will not enjoy the fruits of profit. 

"I do not believe in a pay envelope," said this 
man, with startling surprise. "It is the most 
unthrifty way of paying wages that could be de- 
vised, as well as a great waste of time. To my 
way of thinking, wages should be represented 
merely by a credit to the employees' own account 
at a bank of his selection. The effect of this would 
be that he could draw from the bank from time to 
time what was required for living expenses, and 
would leave in the bank the surplus as savings from 
week to week. The difference lies in carrying loose 
cash in the pocket and trying to save it and not 
having the money in hand when the temptation 
comes for some little extravagance. Thrift is the 



234 We'll Stick to the Finish 

natural corollary to increased wages, for the more 
one accumulates, the deeper and more firmly 
planted is the impulse to save." 

Speaking of the industrial conditions of England, 
he said: 

"We never know what can be done until we do 
it, for with five million men drawn for service of 
navy and army of Great Britain, we still have been 
able to keep pace with the enormous demands of 
the hour. This is because the spirit of labor has 
been appealed to. Back of it all is the patriotic 
motive which only proves you have but to touch 
the right chord in the human heart to meet with 
some whole-hearted response." 

At his London house, The Hill, at Hampstead 
Heath, Lord Leverhulme exemplifies his love of 
art with rare paintings and bric-a-brac collections 
that would seem in themselves to involve a life 
study. 

Lord Leverhulme's career furnishes a note of 
inspiration to thrill the heart of the English youth 
ambitious to succeed. He was born in Bolton in 
Lancashire sixty-seven years ago, educated at 
the Bolton Church Institute, and was apprenticed 
as a grocery boy at the age of sixteen. Here his 
ambition to get on in the world was first mani- 
ested. He made it his business to know every 



C'est la Guerre — It is the War 235 

customer personally and to serve him a little 
better than he had been accustomed to. 

Using brains and tireless industry, he mounted 
steadily. His business success has been one of the 
commercial romances of England. When the sand 
dune peninsula of land opposite Liverpool, lying 
between the Mersey and the River Dee, blossomed 
from marshland into Port Sunlight, England saw a 
new creation in its great industrial life. This 
marvelous industrial city has been visited by many 
of the world's most distinguished people — the 
King and Queen of England, King Albert of 
Belgium, and hosts of others. At Poet's Square in 
Port Sunlight is a replica of Shakespeare's cottage 
at Stratford-on-Avon. 

As chairman of the Board of Lever Brothers, 
Lord Leverhulme has laid his impress on world 
trade. At home he is beloved by all his associates. 
He served as high sheriff of Lancashire in 1917, 
and later was elected to Parliament from Wirral, a 
division of Cheshire. 

He began life as William Hesketh Lever, was 
knighted as Sir William Lever, and later was raised 
to the peerage as first baron of Bolton-le-Morrs, 
county Palatine of Lancashire. 

An only son, Hon. William Hulme Lever, is 
associated with him in the business. His father. 



236 We'll Stick to the Finish 

appreciating the importance of early training in 
public speaking, fitted the playroom of his boyhood 
with a rostrum, and the young lad was taught daily 
to think on his feet, and today he is a graceful 
speaker and presiding officer, trained to carry on 
the great work of Lord Leverhulme. 

Lord Leverhulme's title is formed by combining 
his own name with that of his wife, whose maiden 
name was Hulme. A tender tribute to the one 
who shared in the struggles of his early career and 
whose death was the one great sorrow of his life. 

His work in restoring Storoway Castle on the 
Island of Lewis; in reforesting the historic lake 
district where Wordsworth lived when he wrote 
his *'Ode to Immortality"; his providing convales- 
cent retreats for wounded soldiers — making his 
own home and manor house a hospital — all this 
indicates a great sympathetic heart acting with a 
great business brain to live up to the family 
motto, "I scorn to fear or change." 

Our acquaintance continues as it began. The 
letters of Lord Leverhulme are coming to me as 
aforetime, bringing the joys of friendship, and giving 
a higher understanding of a great soul imbued with 
constructive ideals in inspiring others with the 
glory of toil. 



I 



XXII 

AMERICAN AMBASSADORS IN WARRING 
EUROPE 

TRAVELERS abroad are more likely to meet 
ambassadors and consuls in war than in peace 
times. The word "American," as we use it, 
sometimes annoys our Canadian and South Ameri- 
can cousins, but we have been Americans from the 
time of Benjamin Franklin's appearance in France. 
Our use of the word is more traditional than 
intentional. 

Visiting embassies in the warring countries made 
me more appreciative of our own State Depart- 
ment and its extensive functions at home and 
abroad. Responsibilities have multiplied and 
there is an intensified efficiency to meet war con- 
ditions. It is a welcome sight to a wayfaring 
American to see the Stars and Stripes waving 
over buildings in foreign lands, as familiarly as 
in our own. For the first time in history. Old 
Glory has floated from the Tower of London and 
the House of Parliament. Not only on historic 

(237) 



238 Well Stick to the Finish 

buildings in England, but in all the Allied countries 
it has been unfurled. 

The ambassadors have not only manifested a 
high degree of statesmanship, but have carried 
out in their leadership the spirit and purpose of 
America. 

When I was in Italy the popularity of President 
Wilson was most apparent. All his messages and 
every minute reference to the war were eagerly 
read and fervently admired. His words were 
accepted as the voice of America. The action of 
the Italian government in making Woodrow Wilson 
an adopted son of Italy on July 4th, 1918, reflected 
his popular and growing favor. This action was 
foreshadowed when, at a monster mass meeting 
at the Coliseum Senator Marconi, the inventor 
of the wireless, flashed over the seas the following 
message: 

"President Wilson, 

"White House, Washington: 
"The people of Rome unite today at the Coliseum 
to celebrate the anniversary of the entrance into the 
war of the United States. On this auspicious day is 
accorded to me the honor of becoming the interpreter 
of this message, transmitted through limitless space, 
the sentiments of sincere friendship and close solidar- 
ity that join the people of Italy with those of the 



C'est la Guerre — It is the War 239 

United States, and express to you our liveliest admir- 
ation for your inspiring initiative and for those same 
principles which made Rome, and renew our faith in 
the triumph of right and civilization." 

The placards announcing this meeting ran: "In 
the presence of eternal Rome." It continued: 
"History will record for the redeemed generations 
to come the disinterested action of America. Keep 
in your minds the sacred, powerful motives which 
induced President Wilson to declare war for a 
Society of Nations which will give to all the right 
of free existence and impose upon all respect for 
the liberty of others. Then come, citizens, to- 
morrow with fervent spirits and grateful hearts 
to the Coliseum ..." 

Color was lent to the occasion by soldiers who 
came from picked regiments from the fighting line 
along the Piave. Children were there, many in 
uniform — the little Garibaldians in red shirts; 
green-hatted orphans of soldiers from the Red 
Cross Home at Monte Porzio; women in nurses' 
uniforms; distinguished men from Italy, Great 
Britain, France and America, together with all 
ranks of people from Rome. 

Among American authors is a name familiar 
in literary circles all over the world, and as Am- 
bassador to Italy Thomas Nelson Page is adding 



240 We*ll Stick to the Finish 

to his illustrious career. The Italian people hold 
him in peculiar respect and affection. Gold letters 
over the door indicate the quarters of the Embassy. 
Here the outer rooms were filled with Americans 
having all sorts of problems and personal troubles. 
These were the days of passports. The business 
organization investigated the case of each one 
thoroughly. The findings of Mr. Page were as 
complete and carefully expressed as in a proof for 
the press. 

Long before I reached the Embassy, in the cafes, 
I heard from the lips of the Italians warm praise for 
the American Ambassador. He is more than a 
representative of his government; he is a sort of 
father confessor to all American strangers. His 
office has the atmosphere of a study, papers and 
documents being handled in a regular routine. 

There was a wealth of Southern hospitality in his 
greeting. His acquaintance with and knowledge of 
the Italian leaders had fitted him for the work he 
has accomplished in Italy. Not a detail of Italian 
affairs on which he did not seem to be informed. 

He speaks Italian fluently and has readily 
adjusted himself to Italian ways. Thomas Nelson 
Page closely resembles William Dean Howells, his 
literary contemporary. He is thoroughly at home 
in a discussion of the literature and art of Italy. 




Convriahl. Ilnrnx A' Eninu 

This is the latest photograph of the Helgians" hero-king 




Copyright hy Underwood & Underwood 

HIS MAJESTY, GEORGE V OF ENGLANP 



C'est la Guerre — It is the War 241 

At the Coliseum, where the American flag was 
unfurled with the Italian flag, the Ambassador, 
speaking for the American people, gave a thrilling 
address. With the ancient ruins filled with the 
great concourse of people, it was a scene not soon 
to be forgotten. 

As the ringing words of the Ambassador winged 
their way through that crumbling structure, 
speaking words of hope for the Italian people, it 
was like the voice of prophecy for the future of 
democracy spoken on the site of one of the most 
ancient republics. 

In war work activities, Ambassador Page and 
his accomplished wife have been active leaders. 
Mrs. Page is personally in charge of a workshop 
where the profugi from Italy are given material 
with which to make slippers, soles and all out of 
pieces of cloth sewed together. Materials for 
clothing and surgical dressings are also provided. 
The workshop I visited is located on the top floor 
of an old palace near the ancient four fountains 
which, like Tennyson's "Brook," flow on forever. 
The work has a very systematic handling. A care- 
ful tabulation is kept each day of the articles made, 
the cost, and where shipped. 

They wished me to talk with the refugees, and 
many were the pathetic stories I heard from the 



242 We'll Stick to the Finish 

women now separated from their children and 
hoping for the time when they might be reunited. 
Their answers to my questions were given in 
all the simplicity of the Italian language, and 
in a most naive fashion. When I asked one 
woman from Venice if she had any children, she 
replied "Nearly." 

In his soft Virginia drawl, the Ambassador 
could not resist the impulse to tell a good negro 
story now and then to illustrate a point. He had 
been in close touch with all the Red Cross and other 
activities in Italy; in fact, nearly all the American 
Consuls hereabout feel that an hour of advice or a 
visit to Thomas Nelson Page is an inspiration 
which keys them up to the work in hand. 

/^^LOSE back of the battle lines, the United 
States Embassy at Paris is a center of war 
activities. Scarcely an American in Paris these 
days who does not look on the kind and smiHng 
face of Ambassador W. G. Sharpe. He is a plump, 
good-natured business man with a stubby mus- 
tache, four-in-hand tie, and wears a business cuta- 
way suit. He seems to be everywhere and at all 
places. He remains American in every action and 
word and has won the hearts of the French people. 
At the chancery or door of the Embassy an 



C'est la Guerre — It is the War 248 

American soldier stands with a smile of greeting. 
Unarmed, his uniform alone represents his au- 
thority. In the Ambassador's office, over the 
mantel, is a flag of the State of Massachusetts 
with its stirring and warlike inscription, "By the 
sword we seek peace." 

The reception room of the Embassy was supplied 
with papers from America, and it pleased me to 
find the clerk was from Worcester. Visitors 
are here received and appointments come thick 
and fast. There was an interesting delegation that 
morning representing a musical society, who desired 
Mr. Sharpe to preside at a public entertainment 
of twelve distinct types of Parisians. At the flat- 
top desk the Ambassador was dictating to two 
stenographers, one in French and the other in 
English. Both languages are familiar to him. 

When he finished his work we walked down the 
boulevard. The internationality of Paris impresses 
one who walks through the streets and observes 
the names. It is like a lesson in geography. 
Nearly every country and large city in the world 
is honored by the names of Paris streets; in fact, 
the boulevard changes its name every few squares, 
as if to make the honors go around. 

With the Ambassador I attended a luncheon in 
Circle Industriale, the home of Baron Rothschild, 



244 We'll Stick to the Finish 

in the center of Paris, given over for a club-house 
for British and American officers. Everything 
stops in Paris from twelve to two, and after the 
luncheon the members retire to another room or 
to a courtyard to drink coffee. It is over coffee 
that the conversation of the dejeuner or luncheon 
comes to a focus. Here, among other distinguished 
people I again met Viviani, fixing his colored cuffs 
— evidence of war times. He had the same win- 
some smile, his sparse hair parted in the middle, 
and his eyes danced as he recalled our previous 
meeting in America. 

"Of all the experiences that have come to me, 
the speaking tour through America was the best," 
he said. "You know how it is — speaking to audi- 
ences who do not know your language — after your 
experiences at Rome, don't you?" he said quizzi- 
cally. "Sometimes it seems like talking into a 
barrel, but when you catch the eye of an auditor 
here and there who does understand the language, 
it gives you courage to go on." I agreed with him. 
Viviani is of Corsican descent and is considered 
the greatest orator in France. There is something 
Napoleonic in his double-fist gestures. 

A liberal portion of Smithfield ham at a dinner 
at the Ambassador's house that evening proved 
him to be a true host. Under the spell, I forgot 



C*est la Guerre — It is the War 245 

every other viand of the French chef and just ate 
ham. 

Mrs. Sharpe and the two sons and daughter 
are very popular with the French. The son, Mr. 
George Sharpe, as Secretary Particular, is of great 
assistance to his father. All speak French like 
natives. 

Ambassador Sharpe arrived in Paris the day 
the Germans were nearest to the city. He began 
his oflScial duties on the day when blackest skies 
overhung France. From his hotel window over- 
looking the Place de la Concorde he saw Galleni's 
troops rushed out of Paris in taxis, some of the 
soldiers without uniform, to fight at the battle of 
the Marne. 

In these stirring days the Embassy was the 
haven of excited Americans, and the skill with 
which he handled the perplexing problems of the 
hour enthroned him in the immediate confidence 
of the Americans and French. 

Mr. Sharpe was born at Elyria, Ohio. He was 
a manufacturer and former member of Congress 
before he was made Ambassador. He had visited 
Paris many times, but little dreamed of the honor 
that was to come to him in later years. Whether 
at informal luncheons or at a state function, he 
appears to good advantage. Seldom a day passes 



246 We'll Stick to the Finish 

that distinguished people from all over the world 
are not in personal touch with him. 

At the luxurious palace of the Bourbons, with 
its blaze of red curtains and regal splendor, in 
company with the Ambassador, I visited the 
Foreign Secretary, or Minister of Strangers. It 
was here I met Minister Pinchon, a genial, polished 
gentleman, who as foreign minister knows how to 
greet the strangers within and beyond the gates. 

Few Ambassadors enjoy the confidence of a 
country like Mr. Sharpe. Keeping in touch with 
every phase of the war and diplomacy, he has 
helped to cement the friendship of United States 
and France. 

He dedicated the monument at Verdun, and has 
been accorded other high honors by the French 
people. For the first time an American ambassador 
in Paris is Dean of the Diplomatic Corps, having 
served longer than the Ambassador of any other 
nation in Paris at the present time. When this 
distinction came to him, Mr. Sharpe was the recipi- 
ent of hearty congratulations from Allied and 
neutral nations. 

AS a wag in London remarked while I was 

waiting in the American Embassy at Gros- 

venor Square, there are two bright "Pages'* in the 



C'est la Guerre — It is the War 247 

record of American diplomacy during the war — 
one is Thomas Nelson Page in Rome, the other 
Walter Hines Page in London, editor of the 
World's Work, a conspicuous figure in international 
affairs, and who, as Ambassador to the Court 
of St. James, has ably met the responsibilities 
of perhaps the most important ambassadorial 
post. 

Some Americans in London still think of the 
Embassy as located at the old palace of St. James, 
whereas the American Ambassador has his head- 
quarters at Grosvenor Square, although enjoying 
the title "to the Court of St. James," where the 
court functions are held, and where the gay king, 
Charles II, once lived. 

In the large waiting room are files of newspapers. 
Among the complicated questions he has to meet, 
a good example is that of an American who wished 
to know how he could avoid paying an income tax 
on the same money in England and the United 
States. The routine details are first sifted by 
clerks, then the matter is taken to the second floor, 
where Ambassador Page sits as Judge Advocate. 
The rooms have all the evidences of the Ambassa- 
dor's literary tastes in keeping with the traditions 
of James Russell Lowell and John Hay. On the 
walls are portraits of all the representatives to the 



us 



We'll Stick to the Finish 



Court of St. James. They were called "Ministers 
to England" up to the time of Robert T. Lincoln, 
son of Abraham Lincoln, who facetiously inscribed 
on his photo in leaving, **The Last Minister." 
After that the post was raised to the rank of 
Ambassador. 

Ambassador Page looks much as he did when I 
saw him as editor of the Atlantic Monthly in Boston. 
Even his spectacles were at the same angle, and 
he has an eye for diplomatic business, the same 
as he had for a good manuscript. He handles men 
as he handled authors — good and bad. The first 
suggestion he made was that I visit the Grand 
Fleet and Queenstown Base, confirming the sugges- 
tion of Admiral Sims. It is evident that American 
activities abroad are co-ordinated. 

When Colonel Whitman's regiment paraded in 
London, Ambassador Page stood with King George, 
and each soldier received personally a fac-simile 
letter from the King at the suggestion of Mr. 
Page. 

He lives in the country, where, in these strenuous 
days, he may find quietness and rest. The Embassy 
post office is one of the popular places in London 
and when the mail arrives, Americans line up in 
the hall to receive what is sent in care of the 
Embassy. In the diplomatic pouch papers are 



C'est la Guerre — It is the War 249 

carried these days which will have an international 
import in all the ages to come. 

Mr. Page's secretary, Mr. Shucraft, hails from 
Kansas City, and while I was there left for 
America after a few hours' notice on a special 
mission. 

On the desk of the Ambassador is a memoranda 
which resembles the days of assignment in a news- 
paper office. An interesting speaker, as well as 
a graceful writer, Ambassador Page is in great 
demand, and his appearance at the American- 
Luncheon Club with the Premier was an occasion 
of interest to Americans sojourning in England. 

One of his greatest triumphs has been in the 
direction of the various Missions which have 
visited Europe. Particularly is this true of his 
assistance to the Labor Mission, bringing the 
leaders of Great Britain and America into fellow- 
ship and securing an audience with the King 
and Queen. "I feel like a perpetual reception 
committee," he said. 

During the days preceding the declaration of 
war by America, Ambassador Page faced a situa- 
tion in England calling for almost genius of diplom- 
acy and patience. He reflected most ably the 
thought of America as expressed by President 
Wilson, and in every act has proven himself to be a 



250 We'll Stick to the Finish 

thorough American. The result of his ambassador- 
ship will mark closer relations between England 
and America. 

PRAYER OF A SOLDIER 

Found in the pocket of a British Colonel who was killed in action in France 

Father of all, Helper of the free, we pray with anxious 
hearts for all who fight on sea and land and in the air to 
guard our homes and liberty. Make clear the vision of our 
leaders and their counsels wise. 

Into Thy care our ships and seamen we commend; guard 
them from chance-sown mines and all the danger of this 
war at sea, and as of old give them the victory. 

To men on watch give vigilance, to those below calm 
sleep. Make strong our soldiers' hearts and brace their 
nerves against the bursting shrapnel and the unseen fire 
that lays the next man low. 

In pity blind them from the sight of fallen comrades left 
upon the field. 

May Christ Himself in Paradise receive the souls of those 
who pass through death. 

Let not our soldiers ever doubt that they shall overcome 
the forces of that King who "seeks to wade through slaugh- 
ter to a throne and shut the gate of mercy on mankind." 

O God of love and pity, have compassion on the wounded, 
make bearable their pains or send unconsciousness. 

To surgeons and dressers, give strength that knows no 
failing and skill that suffers not from desperate haste. 

To tired men give time to rest. 

Pity the poor beasts of service, who suffer for man's 
wrong. 



C^est la Guerre — It is the War 251 

For us at home, let not that open shame be ours, that we 
forget to ease the sufferings of the near and dear of brave 
men in the fighting line. 

Father, may this war be mankind's last appeal to force. 
Gr&ht from the stricken earth, sown with Thy dead, an 
everlasting flower of peace shall spring, and all Thy world 
become a garden where the flower of Christ shall grow. 

And this we beg for our dear Elder Brother's sake, who 
gave Himself for those He loved, Jesus Christ, our Lord. 
Amen. — Buffalo Commercial. 



XXIII 

AMONG THE WORKERS BEHIND THE 
LINES 

Among the many and varied war activities 
j\ behind the lines, which serve as rest and 
recreation centers for the boys, one gets 
a different picture of the great war. The comrade- 
ship between the soldiers of Canada and the 
United States on the soil of France is strong. 
The universal tributes to the splendid work of 
the Canadian hospitals were good to hear. The 
recitals of the daring and dashing qualities of 
the boys from over the border, brought a sense 
of kinship. 

"Fearless devils, those Maple Leaf lads," said 
one French commander to me. "I saw them when 
they returned from Vimy Ridge. They had the 
bronzed cheeks and steady eyes of seasoned 
veterans." 

Their language, manners and tastes make 
them seem closer to the Yankee troops. Many 
from the States were in the Canadian Army, 

(252) 



C'est la Guerre — It is the War 253 

and Canadians in the United States Army made 
the bonds even closer. The Canadian khaki 
resembles the British. 

In the hospitals the Canadian nurses have won 
particular distinction. A Nova Scotia nurse 
went out with the Harvard unit, and served a 
year in Canadian and British hospitals. She only 
desired the hard cases. "There's real victory in 
working to win back a life." Nurses take pride 
in their cases, referring to them as "my boys." 
Soldier life, after all, has its compensations. 

I also met and talked tvith the soldiers from 
New Zealand. This little colony, fighters to the 
core, has a record of contributing its full quota 
of one hundred and thirty thousand troops at 
the first call. They talk through their noses, like 
Americans, but cling tenaciously to their English 
accent. They were the troops farthest away from 
home — four thousand miles — and yet as closely in 
touch with the great purposes of the war as their 
Allied comrades. 

People wonder what the boys are thinking 
about. There is not a soldier among the millions 
enrolled who cannot tell you definitely why he is 
there. It is not only a matter of sentiment, but 
a realization that the time had come for him to 
render service that will make his home secure 



254 Well Stick to the Finish 

for all future time. Each soldier has his own 
vision of the future, and when he may return. 

Another picturesque soldier in France is the 
Australian, his hat jauntily turned up on one side. 
The insignia is a "sunburst," but that would not 
be needed to distinguish them. The burly boys 
from the Bush with their relentless energy make 
them seem like Americans at a distance. Australia 
did not adopt conscription, yet since she has 
more than filled her quota, it was felt to be 
unnecessary. 

It was a treat to talk to our own strong, virile 
young American soldiers. Where was the soldier 
wearing khaki who was not prouder of it than of 
any broadcloth suit he ever wore? He showed it in 
his manner. Where is the silk hat that can rival 
the Stetson of the service? The canvas leggings 
are discarded in France for winding puttees. 

"One thing you learn in the army," said one 
of the boys with whom I talked, "is to remember. 
If you don't remember a thing, off goes your 
block, for there is no excuse when a man forgets 
what he is told." 

When one goes to an officer to ask for a privilege, 
the officer says: "You are in the army now." 
Realizing this, the boy is content, for no distinction 
excels that of being in the army. 



C'est la Guerre — It is the War ^55 

One virtue in the life of a soldier is the great 
outdoors. Close to nature, whether it be in the 
mud of the trenches or the dust of the roads, the 
open has air worked wonders in producing strong 
constitutions. 

About the hardest thing to combat is loneliness 
and homesickness. One of the lads told me a 
pathetic story of his pal. They were in the trenches 
and his buddy, Jim, was dispirited. He tried to 
cheer him up, but mail after mail arrived with no 
letter for Jim. He grew disconsolate. 

"Everyone seems to have forgotten me, even 
my own mother. To hell with everything." 

They attempted to cheer him, but to no avail. 
Just before starting out for a raid to kidnap a few 
Boche that night, he said: 

"Boys, I think this is my last trip with you." 

Again they tried to brace him. In the light of 
a lantern he sat down and wrote a letter to his 
mother. 

In No Man's Land, still wrapped in the early 
morning mist, the little band of raiders were dis- 
covered. There was a volley from the machine 
guns of the enemy. Jim had fallen. That night 
when his companions returned to camp, a de- 
layed mail was distributed. Jim's name was 
called twice. Two postals had come from his home. 



^5Q Well Stick to the Finish 

but too late. On one was the sentence: "We 
were too busy to write before." 

The one thing the boys crave more than any- 
thing else is letters from home. The next best 
thing is the home paper, for in the reveries of 
camp life they constantly have visions of the old 
home and the dear ones. To see them seize the 
home papers and familiar American magazines 
does one*s heart good. Not in the excitement of 
the firing line, but in hours of rest loneliness comes. 

In some places I saw Red Cross girls driving 
the trucks. When women drivers reach a certain 
efficiency they are permitted to wear a belt. Such 
insignia "over there" means more than silk and 
satin — it means service. 

Now and then I came across a Wellesley, 
Vassar, Bryn Mawr or Smith College unit, proud 
of its opportunity. 

To find the Salvation Army lassies in the Sal- 
vation Army cabins giving out doughnuts to the 
boys was a real home touch. Thousands of soldiers 
are served each day as they come from the trenches. 
The food is served at cost, but if the soldier has 
no money he gets it just the same. Salvation 
Army officials told me these debts of honor seldom 
remain unpaid. I heard the tributes the boys 
paid to the Mclntyre girls of Mount Vernon, 




Copijriyhl /.;/ L'inlirin 



PRESIDENT POINCARE OF 



FRANCE 




Copyright by Underwood ifc Underwood 

VICTOR EMMANUEL, KING OF ITALY 



C*e8t la Guerre — It is the War 257 

New York, who, under fire, distributed pies, 
doughnuts and cakes, refusing to desert their post 
so long as they could be of service. Yankee 
doughnuts capture the boys. In one large ware- 
house the lassies were washing clothes for the 
boys, and when dry they would mend them like 
so many mothers. Here was a mountain of shoes, 
German, French, all kinds picked up, being 
repaired for the soldiers. Nothing is wasted. 

A familiar sight, as American troops march 
through the villages, is to see the children run out 
to greet them as "big brothers." 

The colored troops from the States were in a 
rollicking mood. They seemed the most carefree 
of them all. There was never a moment when they 
were not enjoying themselves, whether stopping 
for a boxing bout on the way or just having im- 
provised minstrel shows. The humor among them 
has caught the fancy of the French newspaper 
writers. 

At another place I saw the great camouflage 
drying sheds, where mats for artillery covers were 
being made like awnings for porches. French 
peasant women were cutting raffia-grass, for which 
they were paid one dollar a day. The burlap of 
these strange blankets of disguise is laid on ten 
layers thick and painted green like the grass. As 



258 We'll Stick to the Finish 

the workers filled in the designs arranged by the 
artists, it all reminded me of a gobelin tapestry 
workroom. 

The one thing the American soldier exhibits with 
the greatest degree of pride is the picture which 
he has had taken of himself and of his captured 
German prisoner. It is shown with the degree 
of enthusiasm of a trophy after a bear hunt. I 
met many of the chaplains and their work at the 
front is inspiring. There was Chaplain Smith, 
who is now at Rheims. Here, also, I talked with 
Chaplain Danker of Worcester, Massachusetts, 
who has since died of his wounds, and for whom a 
public square has been named in his native city; 
and Chaplain Duval of the Knights of Columbus. 
It is difficult to tell the chaplains of one denomina- 
tion from another, as they are all dressed in 
khaki. Major Fay, secretary to Cardinal Gibbons, 
has been made a prelate by the Pope in recognition 
of his work, and wears his new honor becomingly 
in his regimentals. 

Y. M. C. A. WORK 

One is not long in France, especially near the 
war zone, without becoming familiar with the 
red triangle of the Y. M. C. A., which has erected 
505 huts, where the soldiers pass their leisure 



C'est la Guerre — It is the War 259 

time in games and reading. The physical and 
moral welfare of soldiers is being well cared for by 
this organization. I found boys reading, always 
reading, and the different tastes in books was not- 
able. One young curly -headed fellow was search- 
ing everywhere for books on psychology. He said 
to me: 

''You know we can increase eflSciency if we 
understand psychology and develop telepathy." 

"And how do you expect to use telepathy after 
you get it?" I asked. 

"It's a good thing to know what a German has 
in his mind when you are hidden behind the trench 
line," was his laughing response. 

In another Y. M. C. A. hut I found the boys 
cultivating flowers, and the expert on horticulture 
was telling them the difference between a French 
and an American dandelion. In one aviation 
camp the horticulturist had surrounded the onion 
bed with a most beautiful fringe of roses, enhanc- 
ing the lowly vegetable far beyond its usual 
station. 

At the Montaine Y. M. C. A. canteen on the 
Champs Elysees, an old palace built by the last 
Napoleon for Migne, his financial minister, and 
amid handsome furnishings turned over to the 
Y. M. C. A., I found a retreat in which to talk after 



260 We'll Stick to the Finish 

wrestling with my bad French. Here the boys 
gather for good times and comforts, to get a 
glimpse of home living and perhaps something to 
eat that smacks like "mother's home cooking." 
There were real pies, "holed" doughnuts, canned 
corn and things unknown in the triumphs of the 
French chefs, and longed for by our American 
boys. The waitresses are all volunteers, American 
girls, who know how to create a home atmosphere 
and give a social aspect to the lingering moments 
over dessert. In the smoking room or billiard 
room the lads seemed to forget that they were 
away from home, for the old palace glowed with 
the spirit of an American hostelry. The throngs 
gathered after supper in one of the large rooms 
where a program of music and entertainment was 
furnished. The boys enjoyed it hugely, and well 
they might, for they were given a concert that 
would do honor to any salon musicale. There 
were golden-voiced singers from the Opera Com- 
ique; a pianist, who was the prize pupil of the 
veteran Saint-Saens. The program concluded 
with a message from the folks at home, and it 
was my good fortune to deliver a tribute to the 
flag. Their encore, three cheers and a "tiger," too, 
by these lusty boys was a most thrilling moment 
to me, and when, dim-eyed, I asked "What is 



C'est la Guerre — It is the War 261 

your message to the folks back home?" they 
replied as one: 

*'We'll stick to the finish.'* 

I could not leave without a further word. **Are 
you all as happy and contented as you look?" 

There came a chorus, in the new Franco- Anglo 
language, "Owt, oui — you bet your life." 

I was never so proud of the unconquerable 
American spirit as when I saw it glowing in their 
faces! 

The large signs **Quiet" on the walls of some of 
the headquarters indicated that the flowing French 
and twangy English chatter of the American and 
French girls was too much. There was also a 
sign "Save the paper," and waste baskets yawned 
emptily. Used envelopes served as memorandum 
paper — every "scrap of paper" was sacred in the 
activities of the war, as distinguished from the 
haughty Teuton phrase, "only a scrap of paper." 

The American soldiers are not allowed to remain 
lonesome if good books will help them to pass the 
time. In every Y. M. C. A. hut, tent and canteen, 
in every Salvation Army cabin, in every Knights 
of Columbus building, in every Red Cross hos- 
pital, in every club where soldiers of the A. E. F. 
assemble, are simple placards announcing the 
"War Service Library, provided by the People 



262 We'll Stick to the Finish 

of the United States through The American Library 
Association." Hundreds of thousands of books 
are already on the improvised book shelves, and 
each reader is his own librarian. A red and black 
card sign in fac-simile by the Commander-in-chief 
is on the wall : 

These books Come to us Overseas from Home. 

To Read them is a Privilege. 

To Return them Promptly, Unabused, a Duty. 

John J. Pershing 

The collection of books in each library ranged 
from fifty to five hundred volumes, all of them 
good American books of all sorts, from the red- 
blooded Western stories to the latest scientific 
treatise on aviation or other branches of military 
service. 

Attired in familiar khaki, with *'A. L. A." on 
his shoulder, Mr. Burton E. Stevenson, the 
European representative of the American Library 
Association, is doing eflScient work. In many of 
the larger cantonments at home, the A. L. A. 
erected its own buildings as central libraries aoid 
used the other recreational buildings in the camp 
as branches. In France they make use of every 
nook and corner to give the soldiers easy access to 
the books. The nation-wide campaign in America 



C^est la Guerre — It is the War 



to secure books for the use of the A. E. F. in France 
brought the astounding total of over three million 
volumes, which were collected, prepared for issue 
with a label, book-card and pocket by American 
libraries, and sent on to France. All of the books 
are shipped in special A. L. A. cases, holding about 
sixty books each. Three of these cases, stacked 
on top of each other, form a six-shelf bookcase. 
In these units they are easily moved about from 
place to place. 

At the request of General Pershing, the War 
Department transports fifty tons of these books 
every month for the men overseas. This means 
approximately one hundred thousand volumes 
and does not include books being sent across on 
transports in care of Y. M. C. A., Red Cross and 
other organizations. The books received through 
public donation consist largely of fiction. The 
War Department made up for the deficiency of 
technical works by purchasing over three hundred 
thousand special reference books, with the view 
of their being of direct value to the education of 
our men. 

Eagle Hut, in London, is a central place, not 
only for Americans, but for the British as well. 
There is a splendid co-operation between both. 
It is here that the American orators try their 



264 We'll Stick to the Finish 

wings, and it suits the English and the boys as 
well. 

Perhaps the most popular song here is one 
written by an American, Zoe Elliott, of Man- 
chester, N. H., and whose poems were first printed 
in the National Magazine. Any day one can hear 
his inspiring song, **It's a Long, Long Trail.'* 

At the group meetings the boys call for the 
songs they love most. And among the popular 
numbers are: *'Carry Me Back to old Virginny,'* 
**My Old Kentucky Home," "On the Banks of 
the Wabash," "Illinois," "California, I Love You." 
And, strangely enough, the favorite song of the 
Australians is "My Little Grey Home in the 
West." 

Y. W. C. A. WORK 

I had opportunity to see the good being done 
for the women munition workers of France by the 
American Y. W. C. A. When I visited their head- 
quarters in a building near the large munition 
factories at Lyon, I met Miss Anderson, in charge, 
holding a meeting on a Sunday afternoon. The 
platform was a bower of flowers, surrounding a 
piano, and other decorations to give the home- 
touch. 

Luncheon is served every day and meetings 
to cement the bonds of friendship. The French 



C'est la Guerre — It is the War 265 

women seem especially appreciative of what the 
Americans do for them. Miss Anderson insisted 
that I make an address. I spoke in English and 
it was translated into French. It was a novel 
experience to try to say something gallant and 
chivalrous and then wait for it to explode through 
the translator. Before I could gather my thoughts 
I had a wave of the hand and had to say some- 
thing else. The few little pet French phrases that 
I attempted to use seemed to please them more 
than a real joke. 

This is the work in which Mrs. Cashman, Mrs. 
Coleman du Pont and many of the ladies who had 
been fellow-passengers on the Espagne are greatly 
interested, and is of importance to the women 
workers of France and to the children as well. 
It is getting close to the homes. 

THE ROCKEFELLER FOUNDATION 

With mortality records showing death from 
consumption increasing three hundred per cent 
among the civilian population of Paris, and also 
in other portions of France, it was not surprising 
to meet Dr. George E. Vincent, president of the 
Rockefeller Foundation, on the soil of France, 
giving his personal, vital energy to the work. 

While the Rockefeller Foundation is world-wide 



266 We'll Stick to the Finish 

in its scope, the work in France has been intensi- 
fied. The spirit of the Rockefeller Foundation, 
as explained by Dr. Vincent, was not one of com- 
plaisant patronage. They found much to admire 
in French tuberculosis sanatoria, dispensaries and 
methods, and the purpose was to combine this 
work with the French authorities, as the American 
Army and Navy were brigaded with the Allies. 
An active working agreement was made with the 
Red Cross, and the first experiment was made in 
the Department of Eure-et-Loire^ southwest of 
Paris, which was selected for special anti-tuber- 
culosis demonstration by the Commission. In 
every one of the areas a dispensary was established 
with modern equipment and a trained staff. The 
people were taught the best ways and methods of 
fighting tuberculosis. Printed matter prepared 
by French writers and illustrated by French artists 
is widely distributed. Motor trucks are equipped 
to generate current for projection apparatus, 
in showing educational slides. In every way effort 
is put forth to direct the thoughts of the people 
toward stamping out tuberculosis. 

When I saw sitting outside of the Rockefeller 
Foundation dispensary a frail figure of a girl with 
shining eyes, it recalled the story of "Camille." 
Her cheeks had the unmistakable glow of con- 



Cest la Guerre — It is the War 267 

sumption, and she was there to receive treatment 
and to get advice of the expert physician. It was 
felt there was little hope. Her white face, enhanced 
by black crepe, revealed her only wish: 

"If I could only live until Jean comes back." 

It was a love romance I saw at a glance. An 
elderly French oflBcer arrived and recognized her. 
It was Jean's father. I did not understand the 
language, but actions spoke aloud. The father, 
at the behest of his boy at the front, was looking 
for the fiancee with the blessing he had withheld. 

Although dry and undemonstrative in its facts 
and figures, scientific and exacting in its analysis of 
things, there is a halo of life and death in the fight 
which the Foundation is making in France. 

The spread of the disease has already been 
checked to an almost unbelievable degree. Sixty 
people were working at the headquarters in Paris, 
under the direction of Dr. Livingston Farrand, 
who has been in France for the past year. 

At Circle Industriele lunch I found Dr. Carel, 
dressed in his French uniform and engaged in the 
big medical problems of the war. The treatment of 
**shell shock," combining as it does both a physical 
and mental disease, is one of the most baffling 
with which medical science has to deal. The term 
is used to describe a wide range of cases from true 



268 We'll Stick to the Finish 

paralysis to simple cowardice. Dr. Thomas W. 
Salmon is making a special study of these and 
other nervous casualties. 

KNIGHTS OF COLUMBUS 

The work of the Knights of Columbus is growing 
rapidly. Supplies and men come overseas almost 
every day. At present there are in France forty 
huts in operation, with one hundred secretaries 
and forty Knights of Columbus chaplains. 

At the principal ports their large buildings are 
seen. These are filled with comforts for the men 
going to the front. 

Out in the field of operations their unique 
automobile kitchens roll along with the men 
going to the front, each one, with their trailers, 
able to supply two hundred and fifty men at a 
time. 

In the huts soldiers find comfort kits, boxing 
gloves, baseball outfits, trench checkers, tobacco 
and cigarettes, and plenty of stationery on which 
to write home. 

The comforts of the men are studied, even to 
supplying them with bouillon cubes, from which 
they may make hot drinks, and candies even are 
among the cheer-bits which the workers supply. 

No money is charged for any of these articles, 



Cest la Guerre— It is the War 269 

they are freely given to the men so long as the 
supply lasts. 

The work is thoroughly cosmopolitan; the uni- 
form is the only badge the organization knows, 
and all who wear it are sure of a cordial greeting 
and ready assistance from the workers in these huts. 

To see Jewish Rabbi, Protestant and Catholic 
chaplains working side by side in the great effort 
of relief and comfort is one of the inspiring pictures 
of the war. 

LOYAL ORDER OF MOOSE 

When I heard the clear ringing tenor voice of 
my friend, Joe Jenkins, of Pittsburg, singing in a 
Paris church, "I Know That My Redeemer 
Liveth," it was to see in the expression of the faces 
of the congregation the spiritual awakening of 
France. When the clear vibrant notes rang out, 
it seemed as if there must be a reconsecration of 
faith in God. 

Mr. Jenkins is in charge of the work of the 
Loyal Order of Moose in Paris, and is doing much 
for their soldier members at the front. The work 
is being directed by Mr. James Davis, president 
of the Order, who was widening the scope of the 
civic war activities. Many branches of the Order 
are being organized in France and other European 
countries to cement the fraternal spirit in military 



270 Well Stick to the Finish 

organizations which will follow the war. The 
Moose haunts in Paris are located opposite the 
Madeleine. 

JEWISH WAR RELIEF 

True to the instinct of mercy, of relief to the 
helpless, to the suffering of the maimed, the halt 
and the blind, which has ever been part and parcel 
of their religious belief, the sons of Abraham are 
heart and soul in all helpful ministries. 

Asking for no particular channel through which 
to work, and seeking no gain, the Hebrew associa- 
tions are contributing most generously of time 
and means to the relief of war sufferers and to 
cheering those in actual hostilities. 

"BEACON OF FRANCE" 

In a Toul cafe I met Miss Holt as she was 
engaged in her "Beacon of France" campaign. 
Later I visited this institution which was founded 
by French and Americans for the relief of those 
blinded in the war. It is located in one of the old 
homes of Paris, and is surrounded by a peaceful 
garden. It is here that the blind are taught some 
useful occupation to enable them to earn a liveli- 
hood. Not only are they taught to work with 
their hands, but to use all their other faculties as 
well. They are first taught to read and write by 



Cest la Guerre — It is the War 271 

the Braille System. Many of them also learn to 
use a typewriter and some have even taken up 
the study of stenography. 

They are taught pottery, both modeling and 
decorating, weaving of cloth, use of knitting 
machines — nearly every vocational trade for the 
blind is included in the curriculum. 

Teachers are nearly all volunteers and include 
well-known instructors and specialists. The recre- 
ational phase shows the "Beacon of France" at 
its best. In the gymnasium a fencing master was 
teaching the blind to fence. In the music-hall 
concerts and entertainments, now famous in Paris, 
were being given. 

To see the blind enjoying themselves on 
roller-skates, merry-making, relieved the grewsome 
shadows of war. 

THE WORK OF RECONSTRUCTION 

After travelling over the shell-ridden battle- 
fields and ruined villages is to have a deeper 
appreciation of the organization of women having 
for its purpose the rebuilding of the destroyed 
villages of France. This organization works in 
co-operation with the authorities. Their able and 
generous efforts will soon result in the chang- 
ing of blackened masses of stone and plaster to 
well-built and comfortable homes. 



272 We'll Stick to the Finish 

*'Homes Past and Future," a pamphlet written 
by Mrs. Helen Choate Prince, tells the'^story 
graphically. It is proposed to make a photograph 
of every village adopted, showing all its ruined 
misery, and afterward to make photographs with 
the improvements made and send the records and 
pictures to the godparents who adopted the de- 
stroyed village. 

Mrs. Prince has made a tour of the devastated 
country. Her companion, pointing out the bare 
branches of the dead trees, said: "But, look, this 
is not winter — it is summer." It is the summer of 
hopefulness in these French villages. The people 
are cheered by the generous-hearted patronesses 
of the movement to build again. 

Among the patronesses of the movement are 
the names of many prominent American women 
in France who, working heart and soul with the 
French women, are helping to rehabilitate rural 
France and make her more glorious than ever. 



XXIV 

KING ALBERT IN HIS TRENCHED 
DOMAIN 

IT'S a long way from Havre — now the capital 
of Belgium — to the little area of French land 
which represents the domain of King Albert 
of the Belgians. 

When I arrived in the quaint and picturesque 
channel port of France, I thought not so much of 
France as of little Belgium. Even the town of 
ancient Rouen with its war activities and British 
troops did not distract my attention from that 
little strip of land to the northeast known in 
our geography as Flanders. 

Rouen revived memories of the old struggle 
between France and England. It seems more like 
an English city than any other town in France, 
and has been virtually turned over to the British 
as a base of supplies. 

Passing through Brittany on the way to Havre, 
herds of cattle seemed more numerous than on a 
western plain, and presented a pastoral panorama, 

(273) 



274 We'll Stick to the Finish 

recalling Picardy before it had fallen under the 
Prussian blight. 

Arriving at Havre, I drove through the fog 
mists to the home of Mr. Brand Whitlock, United 
States Minister to Belgium, which is located on a 
quiet street with a flower garden in front. He 
was not at home, but away preparing to move — 
a habit created in Belgium in the stirring days of 
1914. In his study were masses of papers and 
manuscripts, indicating a busy life. Ever since 
the war cloud burst, Mr. Whitlock has been a 
conspicuous figure in European affairs, and his 
record of those days has already become history. 

There was nothing suggestive of the stirring 
days, nor of the strenuous work in caring for the 
refugees who were driven ruthlessly from their 
homes, though the quiet did not hide the tragic 
memories of the first scenes in the war. Some 
members of scattered families were still calling 
at the Legation in hopes of news from their lost 
ones, but always leaving with a blessing upon 
the Nation which had helped them in the hour of 
need. 

On the streets of Havre were soldiers with little 
tassels on their caps, a distinctive feature of their 
uniform. The Belgian army is even larger than 
when the green-gray lines of the Germans swept 



C'est la Guerre — It is the War 275 

across the border, pouring murderous shrapnel 
into this peaceful realm. 

This old seaport town fairly reeks with romance, 
and is even now more picturesque with the rollick- 
ing freedom of the sailors. The heart of Havre is 
the large basin in which vessels, defiant of enemy 
raiders and submarines, are moored, representing 
the free commerce of the high seas. The drive 
along the seawall furnishes an inspiring picture. 
Evidences of the old days of peace and restfulness 
by the sea remain. 

Bright-faced Yankee soldiers add a new touch 
to the scene. One of them directed me to the 
buildings in which the government offices of 
Belgium are located. They are only temporary 
quarters and resemble the beaver board structures 
in Washington, and the governmental machinery 
is intact and running just as if Belgium was not 
occupied by Huns. 

When I entered these quarters, I thought of 
Brussels. The little American flag I wore at- 
tracted the attention of the messengers. Every 
face brightened and seemed to reflect a spirit 
of gratitude toward America. Many of the 
Belgians speak English, or at least, understand 
it. One old man with his whiskers, looked like 
Uncle Sam, and so attracted my attention that 



276 We'll Stick to the Finish 

I shook his hand. He smiled and said in broken 
English: 

"American always good — ^he knows our hearts." 

A char woman was busy brushing a Belgian flag. 
As I stood I looking at it, my "Uncle Sam" friend, 
proud of his English explained the colors in it, 
saying: 

"Red for blood, yellow for hope, black for 
mourning." 

The artillery activities at the front had been 
resumed, but the attacks were repulsed. On the 
banks of the Canal Yser, King Albert holds his 
trenched domain with one hundred and eighty 
thousand soldiers. The flag of httle Belgium still 
proudly floats over her troops. 

No conqueror has ever passed the River Yser. 
Even Caesar with his legions never did it; Napol- 
eon pushing his armies into Russia, even when 
conquering Prussia, never crossed the Yser. It 
may be called the modern Rubicon over which 
no invader ever passed. The banks of the river 
are low and marshy, and Germans in frequent 
attempts to cross on pontoon bridges were re- 
pulsed. Belgian soldiers for diversion now and 
then swim across with knives and cold steel to 
worry the Hun. 

The Belgian frontier extends from Nieuport to 



C'est la Guerre — It is the War 277 

Ploegsteert, and a journey toward it recalled a 
succession of the ghastly memories of 1914. In 
the salient extending out from Ypres (pronounced 
all way from I-prees to Wy -press, according to 
the country, or as the British "Tommies" say 
"Wipers), is a part of the bloody cockpit of 
Europe. 

The "big show'* at Ypres is still conversation 
for many of the British with whom we chatted 
on the speed-record tour. Now we began to 
know what the Hindenburg line meant. What 
stories some of the old dilapidated and crumbling 
trenches, yawning like open or abandoned graves, 
could tell! In many the dead had been placed 
while shells were falling and armies retreating. 

The trip was fast because we had to make many 
detours and go roundabout ways. We carried a 
schedule of the junction points at which to make 
changes, but would have been lost or missing to 
this day except for the kindly help of the officers 
who straightened us out, with many a disgusted 
nod as they looked at the photograph of my blank 
and guileless face, talking real languages I didn't 
understand. 

Truly it was a whirlwind jaunt. The most I 
remember was telephone poles. In a three-cor- 
nered house where one wing had been left standing, 



278 We'll Stick to the Finish 

we had lunch. The old lady pointed proudly to 
the picture of Woodrow Wilson on the wall and 
told of how her family had been scattered, and of 
her boys still in the army. "We will all unite 
again," was her hopeful reply when the interpreter 
told her the latest war news. Though the house 
was ruined, she had kept together some trophies 
of Flemish art, as well as heirlooms. 

To see Flanders was like visiting sacred ground. 
I had looked forward to meeting King Albert as 
the one great event of the trip, because I had met 
him in 1898 as he traveled incognito through the 
United States. While waiting for the long-looked- 
for appointment, which Mr. Whitlock had earlier 
tried to arrange, my thoughts went back to the 
days when the young Prince, after his visit to the 
United States, became to his own people the 
pulsating voice of democracy. After he had made 
his farewell visit to President McKinley, I saw him 
turn and point to the flag over the White House 
and say: 

"What a great flag you have." 

"You bet that's a great flag," I replied, in all 
the gusto of '98. 

"Yes, but out of that flag has been born a new 
flag — a flagl^with a single star representing free 
and independent Cuba." 



C*est la Guerre — It is the War 279 

Tiiis tribute to Old Glory from the lips of Prince 
Albert has never been forgotten. 

Mr. Brand Whitlock in his reports has charged 
the Germans with specific facts and dates of the 
atrocities at Dinant where ninety people, including 
six babies in their mother's arms, were driven into 
the street and shot. This was in August, 1914. 
The city of Namur was made to pay thirty -two 
million francs for indemnity before the murderous 
German guns had stopped smoking. Then, too, 
there was the tragic spectacle at Ardenne — but all 
this is now a record. 

As has been said: '*A highwayman demands 
your money or your life," but the Huns took both. 

Driven back at times in their invasion, they 
returned to rob and loot and kill with redoubled 
fury. Each town has its authentic record of these 
atrocities. The blackest pages of human history 
are those written by the Boche in the blood of 
Belgium. They will ever remain the black curse 
of Germany. 

Long before I saw King Albert there was a rush 
among the tassel-capped soldiers, a look akin to 
lovelight in their eyes, as thej'^ anticipated the 
frequent but always prized privilege of seeing 
the one they affectionately call *'our hero King." 
And now he appeared — the stoop of the Prince 



280 WeHl Stick to the Finish 

was gone. In simple khaki lie looked every inch 
a King in deed as well as birth. His greeting had 
the same cordial manner of twenty years ago. 
There was more in his actions than in his words. 
He stopped to read a paper a messenger brought, 
and although near-sighted, he sees everything 
about him. His manner indicates a thoughtful 
kind-hearted friend. 

*'You Americans always awaken inspiring mem- 
ories," he said looking up. 

My usual question, **Will you visit America 
agam.'' 

"I am visiting America often in my thoughts," 
he replied graciously. 

Just then an orderly came up. I felt that the 
plans made to see him later might go awry, for 
there was news of activity on the front, and war 
waits for nothing. 

The one passion of King Albert is to be with 
his soldiers, and to spend as much of his time as 
possible on the soil of his beloved Belgium. This 
was all I saw of the men I had so much desired to 
meet, but I had learned already to keep out of 
the way when ''artillery activities" were reported. 

King Albert is the grandson of the founder 
of the dynasty which ruled Belgium for nearly 
ninety years. He was born in 1875, being the 



C'est la Guerre — It is the War £81 

son of the youngest son of Leopold the First. As 
such, his likelihood of wearing the crown was con- 
sidered remote. His education was military, and 
his tastes industrial, for early in life he loved to 
meet and mingle with the people at work. He 
also knew the value of silence, and although by 
virtue of his rank a member of the Belgian Senate, 
he never took part in the discussions involving 
partisan matters. He made trips to England, and 
his journeys to the Congo State, and the United 
States were at first opposed by his uncle, King 
Leopold II, but the young Prince prevailed. 

Two years after his tour of the United States, 
he married the daughter of a Bavarian prince who 
was famous as an oculist. The daughter had helped 
her father in his work and as Queen Elizabeth of 
Belgium, she has truly been a helpmate to her hero 
King. When he took the oath of his office in 
1909, he gave expression to words that fore- 
shadowed his career. *T swear to observe the 
constitution and to defend the integrity of the 
national territory." When the crucial moment 
came he immortalized his oath. 

His utterances are cherished by the Belgian 
people. 

In one of the headquarters I saw a sheet of 
crude wrapping paper in a gold frame, which had 



282 Well Stick to the Finish 

once contained a painting, on which is engrossed 
the following: 

"The sovereign must be the servant of the law 
and supporter of social peace. I love my country 
and the Queen shares with me the unalterable 
feeling of fidelity to Belgium which we are in- 
culcating in our children. I will endeavor to 
deserve your confidence myself and before the 
country I take the pledge to do my duty scrup- 
ulously and to consecrate all my strength and life 
to the service of our country." 

These were words spoken before the flame of 
war had appeared and indicate the foundation of 
the faith on which King Albert has builded. Even 
then he seemed to sense the coming storm, and 
against bitter opposition ardently supported the 
army bill. He seemed to have a premonition of 
Germany's purpose, and of the fateful Sunday, 
August 2, 1914, when the Prussian ultimatum was 
issued. 

There was a suggestion of humor in his famous 
remark that "Germany seemed to beheve Belgium 
was a road, not a country." 

The masterful retreat which he made before 
the first German drive, and in establishing his 
line from Nieuport along the Yser Canal showed 
mihtary training and genius. Frequently he goes 



C'est la Guerre— It is the War 283 

to the front line trenches in undress uniform with 
only the star of Leopold hidden under his cape 
to indicate his rank. An unerring marksman he 
was seen to take the rifle of a soldier who had just 
been killed and to continue the actual defense 
of his country, glorifying his saying: 

"My place is with my brave soldiers." 

A strong figure, clinging to the little corner of 
Belgium, and refusing to cross the Channel to 
England for greater safety he declared : 

"It is better to die here than in a foreign land. 
If Belgium loses her freedom to brute force, I 
will perish with its defenders." 

There is only one dominant feeling among 
Belgians today. The trenched domain, consisting 
largely of sand dunes stretching from the North 
Sea along the sluggish waters of the Yser, means 
more to King Albert and the Belgians — defended 
as it is with honor — than Continental Russia 
crumbling under the treason of the Bolsheviki. 



XXV 



LONDON IN WAR TIMES 



BRACKETTED between my first and last 
impressions in London were many things, 
but the first and last scenes not only stand 
out clearly, but are an index of the whole spirit 
and temper of London today. 

The first picture was when I arrived in the 
Waterloo Station and looked upon a Red Cross 
hospital train bright and fresh from the car shops. 
An eager throng was passing up and down on a 
tour of inspection, examining the equipment and 
perhaps wondering how soon their own might be 
there. Americans were among them. This hos- 
pital train was built in England for the medical 
department in France. In it was a surgical room 
filled with dressings and fitted with the latest 
improvements. The Glennon bunks are built 
into all the cars for the sick and wounded. A 
kitchen car was attached in which there was 
running water and a room for the cooks. The 

(284) 



Cest la Guerre — It is the War 285 

large Red Cross, the international insignia, was on 
the windows of the cars, shining fresh and radiant 
amid the grimy surroundings. And that very 
night an air raid occurred and the cars were used. 

The second picture was on the day of my depar- 
ture, when at Victoria Station, an out-going train 
was thronged with British "Tommies," going to 
the front. A mass of people had gathered to say 
farewell. Fathers, mothers, sisters and sweet- 
hearts were in the crowd. Ofl&cers in uniform 
were there, many of whom were of the gentry. 
A suppressed feeling, and sometimes a tearful 
expression overspread the faces of the onlookers, 
though the soldiers seemed to be in the tradi- 
tional jovial mood. In that train the officers 
were traveling first-class, others second and third 
class, but in the heart of each soldier was a spirit 
which bespoke a new comradeship, animated by 
one purpose and welded in a common cause. 

In all that concourse, two figures standing 
together engaging in conversation, particularly 
attracted me. No word would be needed to tell 
you that one of them was a nobleman — he looked 
noble. The other was a man fully seventy. His 
hair white, his face furrowed, with a slight stoop 
to his frame. He was a Yorkshire textile worker. 
It was the old man who was speaking : 



286 Well Stick to the Finish 

"I have six sons, sir, in the war, four of them 
wounded, one in the big drive now on, and the 
baby's off tonight, sir! See him there?" pointing 
him out. 

The scion of ancient lineage, with not so much 
as a quiver though he was bidding his only son 
good-bye, said: 

"We are each giving our all now!" 

Just then the tall manly figure of the baronet's 
son appeared for the last word with his father. 

"Let me have a line often. Governor," he 
merrily chirped and was off with a wave of his 
hand. 

Within twelve or twenty-four hours that train- 
load of British sons would be at the front, as a 
part of the emergency reserves stemming the waves 
of the onrushing Huns. 

On arriving in London I stood for an hour 
outside the station waiting for a taxi. None ap- 
peared, so a-top a bus I started through the streets. 
Nowhere was the gay sprightly life of other days 
visible. London seemed war-worn, yet it was 
wrapped in a quiet stern glory. 

Walking along the Thames Embankment, I 
observed the walls on my right covered with every 
conceivable kind of poster with appeals for war 
relief, but it was the finest literature I ever read. 



Cest la Guerre — It is the War 287 

One of them displayed large letters across the 
top, "The Die Hards" — a poster with a grim 
meaning. Some of our American food posters 
were there — also appealing to a hungry traveler. 

I had to go to Scotland Yard to report — Mecca 
for Conan Doyle and the great detective eye of 
the world. Finding I could not report there, I was 
sent to Bow Street, where many a famous criminal 
was incarcerated. After being duly Londonized 
by the sergeant, who was very considerate of me, 
I found myself in a long line of people waiting 
for identification cards to be stamped. 

A good American cigar facilitated the dispatch 
of my affairs. The sergeant took me into a side 
room and I was through in a hurry. He seemed to 
want to talk about America and asked: "When 
are your boys coming over?" 

Lunching at the old Cheshire Cheese Inn — 
made famous by Dr. Johnson, whose head rested 
so many times against the wall that it was said to 
have made a niche in it — I, too, rested my head. 
There was very little on the menu except fish. 
From others at the table could be heard the 
exclamation: "Same old salmon." Beef and 
Yorkshire pudding were among the missing. 

London has always prided herself on her police- 
men. When I reached the Strand, not one of the 



288 We*ll Stick to the Finish 

old guard was in sight. Neither was there a single 
pleasure automobile rolling along the streets. 
People were using the tubes and busses. Rigid 
economy was in the very air. The people as they 
moved about still manifested remarkable cheeri- 
ness. In the parks blue uniformed wounded 
soldiers were to be found in great numbers. They 
were also threading their way through the crowds 
on all the streets. London is the center of hos- 
pitals for wounded soldiers. In the open spaces 
and parks, war huts were tucked into every avail- 
able space, together with larger buildings for 
officers. 

The only way I could get around was in a 
rackety taxi. In it I spent many busy hours 
rolling about London. It was the only way I 
could make my calls. 

One of the great shopping centers in London is 
a department store founded by my old friend, 
H. Gordon Selfridge. He was formerly manager 
of Marshall Field's retail store in Chicago, and 
when he decided to locate in London, there was a 
shaking of heads, showing evidences of doubt 
among both English and American friends. Yet, 
in the astonishingly short space of a few years, the 
establishment of Selfridge has become a prominent 
institution of Great Britain, foreshadowing in a 



C'est la Guerre— It is the War 289 

business way what has later come about in the 
miHtary and naval alliance. 

It was a real American feeling to be caught by 
the crowd and carried to the soda fountain in the 
corner. Fizz fountains are rare in London. Here 
I drank to the health of my friend, H. Gordon 
Self ridge. 

At Crewe House Lord Northcliffe, the news- 
paper ruler of Great Britain, has his office. As 
the owner of the London Times (The Thunderer), 
and other papers and periodicals, he is a powerful 
voice in the public life of the Empire. He had been 
ill for some months, due to the strain of his service 
on the American Commission. He made an 
appointment for me to see him, but the taxi 
service was too slow to enable me to make all 
points on the schedule. 

Then I had a hurried luncheon with Arthur 
T. Pollen, reputed as the expert writer in naval 
affairs. He has visited the United States, and his 
analytical discussions of American affairs and 
public men contain a perspective not attained by 
any man since Lord Bryce. 

We had not left the table after another pisca- 
torial feast, when the somewhat stooped form of 
the Right Honorable Winston Churchill, former 
First Lord of the Admiralty, stood before us. 



290 We'll Stick to the Finish 

He was in a jovial mood. He wore a winged collar, 
black cravat, and his grey eyes glistened as he 
whistled "The Yanks are Coming." That was 
his unique way of greeting me. He was swinging 
his cane up and down with a movement that indi- 
cated the rise and fall of his political fortune — 
for Churchill must be reckoned with. 

Americans in London seem to be thoroughly 
purged of the braggadocio of tourist days, and 
British reserve has been melting accordingly. 
London seems more homelike than ever to Ameri- 
cans. My good friend, Mr. George Thomas of 
Manchester, always warm-hearted with strangers, 
is now looked upon as a model host by his English 
friends. He may yet sacrifice his whiskers as a 
compliment to the smooth-face American. 

Going out to Wimbledon I called on Mr. Byron 
Miller, of the Woolworth Company. Mr. F. W. 
Woolworth was himself in France when the war 
broke out, and his experiences in getting out of 
the field of hostilities well illustrates his favorite 
phrase: "There must be some way out." Calling 
later on Lord Morley at Flower Heath, I passed 
the golf links, which, together with the parks, 
had been cut up into "allotments." Myriads of 
people have gardens there. They were dotted 
all over with tool houses, resembling "claim" 



C^est la Guerre — It is the War 291 

shanties. For the first meal at Norfolk Lodge, Mrs. 
Miller had a vegetable loaf, looking like sausages 
side by side. Vegetables, corn fritters and peanuts 
constituted the meal. In their garage, were two 
automobiles neither of which had been used for 
two years. Everybody was under war regulations. 
The most complete unit I saw anywhere in 
Europe was composed of a few American women, 
called the "Care Committee for American Soldiers." 
Here every American woman is working with 
both hands, including the wife of the Ambassador 
and Consul. Their quarters are located on Bond 
Street, over a jewelry shop, the rooms being gen- 
erously contributed by the proprietor. These 
elect women personally visit the hospitals where 
there are American wounded to ascertain what 
each would like and to see that it is provided. 
It was here that I met a young lieutenant who had 
fallen with his airplane, his jaw crushed so badly 
that he could scarcely talk, yet able to express 
his gratitude for the painstaking kindness of this 
little group of American women. The one thing 
most desired by this Care Committee is American 
magazines and papers, the only way to secure 
which is to order from the publishers. Only the 
individual order can be sent, no packages are 
allowed. 



292 We'll Stick to the Finish 

Yielding to what was now a habit, I started 
for the Red Cross headquarters where I found 
Major Endicott in charge. Here were hundreds 
of wives of soldiers making surgical dressings. 
So painstaking were they in the preparation of 
these that not even a stray thread was allowed 
for fear it might irritate a wound. 

Not far from here is the statue of Florence 
Nightingale. Statues, as well as men, have their 
day. This statue reflects the heart of London in 
the war, a fresh wreath of flowers being placed 
there daily. 

Rodehampton Hospital specializes in artificial 
limbs. One man treated walked for the visitors, 
who were asked to guess which one was the arti- 
ficial limb. One guessed the right and another 
the left. 

"Wrong," he laughed, "both the bloomin' pegs 
are gone." 

In one of the hospitals I found the son of a 
friend. His mother had asked me to look him up 
and to ascertain why he had not written. I found 
he was recovering rapidly, not at all anxious to 
get out, for he had fallen in love with his nurse. 
"We are engaged," he whispered, and I came away 
whistling "I don't want to get well, I'm in love 
with a beautiful nurse." 



Cest la Guerre— It is the War 



293 



St. Dunstan's Hospital was for blind soldiers. 
The structure was formerly the home of Otto 
Kahn of New York, now turned over by him for 
a hospital. Here I saw the blind enjoying them- 
selves on roller skates or being taught useful 
occupations. Sir Arthur Pearson, founder of 
Pearson's Magazine, is in charge, devoting his 
time to the rehef of the bhnd. 

On Carlton Terrace, standing with a group of 
Americans, in which there was a mixture of 
Englishmen, we saw Colonel ^Yhitman's regiment 
swing by with that peculiar freedom of movement 
of the shoulders made possible, so it is said, by the 
wearing of belts rather than braces. As they 
passed in review of King George V, at Buckingham 
Palace, he was heard to say: 

"The boys look fine. They have the swing of 

confidence." u n ^ 

The King recently threw out a baseball at a 
game between the American Army and Navy. 
The comments of a London newspaper writer 
about the game was an appreciative observation 
on the American national sport. 

It was an inspiring moment when American 
troops swung down the Pall Mall lined on either 
side with the Stars and Stripes. Following the 
troops was a gray-bearded Civil War veteran 



294 We'll Stick to the Finish 

carrying a little flag. Every American in our 
party uncovered. The British pay honor to 
the King, while Americans venerate the flag as 
expressing an ideal. 

All unexpected to him, undoubtedly, I wrote 
the King extending my felicitations. My English 
and American friends laughed at my informal 
manner; yet in twelve hours I had received a 
reply from the King's Secretary, thanking me 
for the fine spirit of my letter. 

Meeting the leaders of the American Labor 
Mission, my friend, McCormick, told me how 
they had been received by the King. I said to 
him: "I think I ought to call on the King before 
I leave." The Embassy arranged the matter, but 
the date set was after that on which I was due to 
sail. Mr. Shucraft, the secretary of the Embassy 
said: 

*T know the Assistant Secretary to the King 
and will advise him of your early departure.'* 

Borrowing a frock coat and a silk hat and a pair 
of white spats from an English friend, forty-four 
stout, and buying a cane and pair of lavender 
gloves, I started for Buckingham Palace. Stand- 
ing at the foot of the Strand until I could get a 
cab which seemed to correspond to my attire, and 
entering the "chariot," I said to myself, as I lolled 



C'est la Guerre — It is the War 295 

at a patrician angle on the cane with care-flung 
gloves: "They'll think a real duke is coming now." 

As I went toward Buckingham Palace I saw 
English soldiers nearby training with gas masks. 
I then wondered how my voice would work in 
the presence of royalty. 

I rolled up the graveled drive to the palace. 
Alighting I asked for the Assistant Secretary. 
I was escorted into a large room and while waiting, 
spent my time in looking at the pictures on the 
walls. The King was leaving that day for Sand- 
ringham. One by one other men gathered until 
there was quite a group. Finally the attendant 
appeared and motioning that we were to follow, I 
found myself in the room where stood the King of 
England. The first glimpse I had of him was with 
his back toward me. As the different men melted 
away and my turn came, the attendant presented 
me. I extended greetings. He bowed and said 
in his quiet democratic way: 

*Tt is always a delight to meet j^ou Americans." 
There was something so good, noble and earnest 
in the way he said it. I bowed and earnestly paid 
my tribute to the kinglj- man and manly king, and 
with the same spirit as I would sing the "Star 
Spangled Banner," I now would sing "God Save 
the King." 



XXVI 



HOMEWARD BOUND— SMOKE TALK 



SEATED on wooden benches, like school 
children in the old days, the few who were 
to sail that morning waited in the Landing 
Stage at Liverpool. Every person was separately 
examined, for once on board, it was to stay. 

Out in the Channel lay the great ship which was 
to take us home. To reach her we boarded a 
tender. The skies were pouring rain, and though 
soon wet to the skin, none of the enthusiasm for 
the voyage was lost. To be home again! To tell 
the people what I had seen with my own eyes! 
To relate experiences, probably given to no other 
man of my capacity in equal space and time! 
To carry the messages from soldier-boys at the 
front to fathers and mothers! To bear greetings 
from Premiers and Cabinet officers! That was 
my purpose. I knew not what precious cargo was 
^board our ship, but in my brain and heart I 
ckrried a wealth untold. 

(206) 



Cest la Guerre — It is the War 297 

What a thrill swept over me as I first learned that 
our ship was the Carmania — she of the charmed 
life. Had she not been reported sunk a number 
of times? Three hundred and three shots were 
in her hull. Five had penetrated below the water 
line. She had been through the battle of the 
Falkland Islands, but — she was still afloat. Then, 
too, she was in the hands of Captain Irwin, still 
undaunted, who had seen two ships torpedoed 
from under him. 

Near us lay the great Aquatania — the largest 
ship alive. In her great arms she was tenderly 
bearing the wounded soldiers home. 

Once on board there was a long wait of nearly 
twenty-four hours. In our squadron were eight 
ships, and we were waiting for convoy. After 
what seemed an interminably long time, the con- 
voy appeared, steaming out of moorings to take 
their place in the line on either side. There were 
seven. Outside the line of our ships were the 
big battle craft, while outside of these were the 
destroyers, which, during the voyage, darted in 
and out, ahead, astern, and between the battle 
craft, always steering a zigzag course, humming 
like a hornet, and looking as spiteful. 

Now we are moving down the Channel! The 
ship was threading the graveyard of the Mersey. 



298 We'll Stick to the Finish 

Masts of sunken ships push out of the water here 
and there, mute reminders of the myriad tragedies 
of the past four years! 

Not once during the first three days out to sea 
did our convoy relax its vigilance. When we 
reached a certain longitude, the convoy swung 
off; each of the eight ships was left to its own 
defense, and each began to steer a different course. 
In a few hours it was hulls down on the horizon, 
and our good ship was alone. So rapidly did she 
zigzag, that, walking the deck one evening with 
the sun directly astern, by the time I had crossed 
the deck, where I had seen the sun on that side, I 
now saw it on the other. 

It was here, on my first day at sea, that I 
asked a stranger for a match. That match lighted 
a most enjoyable friendship, for the donor, Mr. 
H. E. Worthington, an Englishman by birth, and 
now a resident of Philadelphia, became my seat- 
mate and companion. 

Our passenger list numbered thirty-eight, only 
two of whom were women. The smoke room, 
then, naturally became the inner shrine of the 
ship, and it was not long before it became an open 
forum, where topics pertaining to the war were 
threshed out. 

Our party formed a very cosmopolitan company. 



Cest la Guerre — It is the War 299 

Among others were Dr. George E. Vincent, 
president of the Rockefeller Foundation; Dr. 
Livingston Farrand, tuberculosis expert, who 
had been in France for a year; a Y. M. C. A. 
secretary from America; the president of the 
British Seaman's Union, and a native of New 
Zealand; a lieutenant of the British x\rmy, who 
had been serving in South Africa, teaching natives 
how to use machine guns; a captain of the British 
Army from Australia; a soldier from New Zealand; 
a Y. M. C. A. secretary from India, Rev. Joseph 
Clare, for five years minister of the British- 
American Church at Petrograd; expert aviators 
from the British Air Force; an aviator from 
Argentina, and a nurse from Nova Scotia. The 
commander of the convoy detailed by the Ad- 
miralty had been for many years the captain of 
tramp steamers all over the world. Of all the 
company he alone seemed indisposed to talk, but 
he was a hard listener. 

The forumesque character of the evening gath- 
erings soon assumed definite shape. My friend 
Worthington, extremely modest, was persuaded 
to act as judge advocate. Dr. Vincent, whose 
father was the founder of Chautauqua, and who 
had listened to all sorts of oratory for forty years, 
was chosen presiding officer. His task was to 



300 We'll Stick to the Finish 

keep the speakers within the time limit. He 
proved to possess a rare combination of wit and 
repartee. 

From the personnel of the party, it seemed as if 
the ends of the earth had been brought together. 
"Parson" Clare had been in Russia during the 
Revolution, and his sidelights of the situation 
there were most illuminating. Representatives 
from Africa, New Zealand, Australia, India, 
France, Great Britain, Canada and the United 
States made contributions to a better under- 
standing of war conditions. Some of these were 
called upon once, but two of us, I remember, 
were called upon every night. It might be said, 
however, that we were on the program committee. 

An illuminating argument came personally to my 
attention one day. Two English lads coming to 
America had been having an animated discussion. 
They chose me as arbiter. One said, "How many 
stars are there in your flag and how many stripes 
has it?" One contended that it had sixty -four stars 
and nine stripes. It gave me an opportunity to 
deliver one Flag Day oration on a subject with 
which every child in our public schools is familiar 
when he pledges allegiance to the flag. 

During the progress of the voyage there was 
one exciting moment. It was when the foam of a 



Cest la Guerre— It is the War 301 

torpedo hissed astern of the ship. From that 
moment the captain posted a notice of warnmg 
that each must wear life preservers— eating, sleep- 
ing or waking. Then began the life-boat drill m 

earnest. 

The journey also afforded an opportunity to 
inspect the ship. Under the gracious guidance 
of Captain Irwin, I was shown the accommoda- 
tions for our boys who are being taken across. 
The ship had capacity for about two thousand 
seven hundred, or all she dared to carry and 
*'get off." Every possible comfort was provided. 
Many of the officers and soldiers have staterooms, 
but an additional bed has been built in the space 
between the two tiers of regular bunks on the side 
by taking out the partition. Each stateroom is 
scrupulously clean and provided with fresh sheets 
and clean blankets. Hammocks serve as a resting 
place for the others during the night. All in all, our 
boys go across under most comfortable conditions. 
MacDonald, the chief engineer of the ship, was 
aboard the Carmania when she was fighting in the 
battle of the Falkland Islands. 

On the bow of the ship the triangle paroplanes 
were placed the last night out. These cut the 
wires of the mines and set them adrift. We then 
knew that it was the last day at sea. As we neared 



302 



We'll Stick to the Finish 



the end of our journey, they were hauled up. 
They were covered with fish, partly dressed and 
masticated ready for a meal, if anybody wanted 
one of that kind. 

Finally Ambrose Light hove in sight. We 
had received the wireless news of enemy sub- 
marines in American waters. This explained the 
bits of wreckage we had seen. As we came nearer, 
airplanes were hovering about and observation 
balloons stationed in the air were watching for 
submarines. Our ship was still zigzagging. The 
bell in the pilot house was ringing every ten 
minutes, the signal to change the course. The 
submarine could not fire a torpedo inside of 
fifteen minutes. When we caught a glimpse of 
Staten Island there was a cheerful look on the 
faces, its emerald green flashing in the red of the 
sky like an opal. 

And now we are abeam of the Statue of Liberty. 
If a fitting scene for the close of a most memorable 
journey were desired, nothing more dramatic 
could have been laid than that which was staged. 
Fifty-five ships, the decks piled high with supplies, 
guns bristling fore and aft, camouflaged in baffling 
designs, were passing the Statue of Liberty on 
their way to France. 

America was busy. 



C'est la Guerre— It is the War 303 

These cargoes carry on the war pledge of "our 
entire resources," but in the transports bearing 
our soldiers overseas is carried the treasure untold. 
Your boy and my boy — from a million homes — 
have sailed for France, and gazed long upon this 
emblem consecrated to liberty, whose arm is ever 
uplifted while facing the glowing east, where the 
hope and love of our evening prayers greet the 
rising sun of tomorrow. 



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